by C.R. Black
This was the change that the Islamists hated most, and it had only come in the matter of two generations. It was also how they were able to gain recruits, especially from the poor and socially disenfranchised residents of the vast shantytowns known in Morocco as bidonvilles. With fashions, foods, music, literature, and TV from the West sweeping over Morocco like a tsunami, it was no wonder that many grumbled. Change was never easy, especially rapid change in an ancient culture. He had noticed hardline Islamist groups in several North African countries already publishing cartoons linking wealthy and westernized women to the crooked and opulent lifestyles of discredited governments. He knew it would be the same here if they were given a chance.
Wearily the Chief Inspector stepped out of the car and told his driver to report back at 5 the next morning. Slowly climbing the stairs, he unlocked the door and flicked on the lights while scanning the sparsely furnished apartment. He was getting old and after several days like this he felt even older. Though he was in fairly good shape for a chain-smoking man of 65, he carried a few extra pounds. The hard years of stress were taking their toll on his body, and his thinning gray hair was an indicator. Retirement in another couple of years would allow him to relax and maybe travel, though he also worried about boredom.
A widower for the past six years, Afellay had felt no need at his age to remarry or even express much interest in women period, though loneliness sometimes crept into his heart. His life since the death of his wife was almost solely centered on his job. He knew that he had neglected his family during much of his career and felt little need to burden still another person with such a life. Anyway, he was now settling into the life of a widower, eating when and what he chose and coming and going without having to make excuses or explanations.
Idus, his only child, lived in Casablanca and worked for one of the largest commercial architectural firms in the country; A. G. Designs. He saw him fairly often, though not often enough if truth were known, and he worried about his alleged involvement in the February 20 Movement as well as other life-style choices.
At this moment he decided he needed to get some food into himself and then a few hours sleep in order to be at the height of his powers to stop this threat. Walking into the kitchen, he opened the nearly bare refrigerator and found a pot of harira that he could heat up. This was Moroccan comfort food; a rich and hearty soup made with lentils, chickpeas, tomatoes, pasta, cilantro and a mélange of spices.
Putting the pot on the stove, he turned the gas on while lighting another cigarette and walked over to the cabinet, taking out a bottle of 12 years old Macallan Scotch Whiskey. Even though Muslims ostensibly did not drink alcohol, Afellay had learned to enjoy an occasional drink of whiskey early on in his career while in Britain for a meeting on international terrorism. It was especially relaxing when problems like this presented themselves. He chuckled that if single malt Scotch whiskey had been around when the Quran was written then it wouldn't have been proscribed. Besides, he never drank during Ramadan, and that was the important thing.
He sat smoking, mentally tallying what needed to be done before the beginning of the parade tomorrow, less than eighteen hours away. As the soup warmed on the stove and filled the small room with the delightful smells of its goodness, the Macallan relaxed his tensions and he prayed that Allah would bless his efforts to find the assassin before it was too late.
Chapter 19 - Thursday - 6:45 p.m.
"Little by little, the camel goes into the couscous." Moroccan proverb
Agents from all the bureaus involved; DST, Royal Gendarmerie and National Security Police, converged on the Ras Cherratene safe house and surrounding area, much to the grumbling of the neighbors who could do nothing more than stand outside and do what they were told. "No," they had answered, nothing unusual was noticed about the tall man or the rough looking one either, other than they sometimes came and went late at night and oftentimes used neighboring stairways to come or go. "Maybe they had forgotten their keys?" Poor residents of the medina tended to mind their own business.
As the officer in charge walked in the front door he felt the malignant air of the house. A thorough search was made of the apartment as well as fingerprints taken. Seemingly little was found of any use in the investigation and the lieutenant in charge was just about to release all of his team when he noticed some plastic-like substance on the edge of a table in the kitchen. Taking out an evidence bag, he had one of the technicians scrape up the translucent material and then seal it in the bag. They also take sample swabs of the tabletop.
"Strange stuff" he said to the technician, as they were finishing up. He then quickly called his superiors at headquarters and briefed them on what had been found and more importantly, what had not. Before leaving he instructed the remaining agents to get statements from all of the surrounding neighbors before returning to the office.
Back at headquarters, technicians went to work processing the fingerprints collected at the safe house and trying to match them with known anti-government individuals. At the same time, the table top swabs and the mysterious plastic substance were sent by helicopter to the main labs 120 miles away in Rabat where others were at work, quickly learning it had some very unusual properties.
Meanwhile, the search for Akmed Benharoun had proven fruitless. He had not been found at his apartment, neither had any of his family or neighbors claimed knowledge of his whereabouts. Not wanting to bother Chief Inspector Afellay with another report of no new developments, the senior officer told all of the officers to report back at headquarters by 5 the next morning. By that time they would hopefully have traced the fingerprints found at the Ras Cherratene safe house as well as knowing the specific properties of the plastic- like substance from the table and any other elements picked up by the swabs of the technicians. Science was now a weapon against the terrorists. By sunrise, the search would bear sparse fruit.
Across the medina Fettah and Hasan were making themselves ready for the coming day's attack. Both had quietly visited the nearby bathhouse before going to the Bab Guissa mosque for prayer. Afterwards they returned to the safe house, which they entered using a hidden door in a blind alley. They had eaten a sparse meal of salad, bread and olives and laid out all of their necessary equipment. Now it was simply a waiting game.
Fettah paced the floor. A sympathizer had quietly informed him after evening prayer that government agents and gendarmerie had raided a house on Ras Cherratene earlier in the evening. "At least we are safe for now," Fettah mumbled to Hasan as he busied himself with last minute adjustments to the air rifle and once again checked to make sure his deadly ricin darts were secure. Afterwards they would pray, asking Allah to bless their undertaking.
Akmed Benharoun and his friends were passing the hash pipe for the third time this evening, idly talking about their February 20 Movement action at tomorrow's parade and repeating an old Moroccan proverb; "A pipe of kif in the morning gives one more strength than a 100 camels in the courtyard." Like many modern young Moroccan males, the casual use of easily available hashish was looked upon as a mostly harmless rite of passage, and the country had an age-old tradition of its use. Akmed and his fellow M20F compatriots felt the proverb boded well for their efforts the next day.
Akmed knew his family disapproved and that technically hashish was illegal in Morocco, though in most cases the gendarmes tended to look the other way for locals using it. Not so for the many foreigners traveling the so-called "hippy trail" who had found to their discomfort that Moroccan drug laws could be severe. He also knew that he was nearing the time to settle down, marry and seriously become part of the family business. In'shallah, he would soon.
Chapter 20 - Friday - 5:00 am
"Cautious people are safe." Moroccan proverb
At exactly 5 a.m., Afellay's door buzzer rang announcing that his driver was waiting for him. Grabbing an extra pack of Marlboro's he shut the light off and closed the door. All night he had lain tossing in bed while trying to see a pattern where none exi
sted, trying to think of what else could be done to protect the King.
He knew the monarch would refuse any suggestion to cancel his trip and review. Since the Constitutional election earlier in the year, and especially following the attempt on his life at the allegiance ceremony, the King was rigid in expressing his intent to meet his people and show them that he was accessible.
Even though the King had relinquished little actual power in the new Constitution, it was a small step in the direction of a true constitutional monarchy. Afellay knew that there were parties on both ends of the political spectrum who did not want to see that happen, either wanting complete democracy or on the other end, an Islamic theocracy. That was for others to fret over thought the Inspector.
The orb of the sun was breaking over the eastern ramparts of the medina as he climbed into the back seat of the car. He knew he must free his mind.
Saying aloud to his driver, a young corporal on the staff, "Medhi, one must learn to open their mind and let imagination take over to discover." And that was exactly what Afellay planned on doing this morning. Let his imagination and abilities run wild.
Reaching headquarters, Afellay learned that last night's raid on the Ras Cherratene house was not a complete bust even though no suspects were found. It was reconfirmed by neighbors that two or three suspects were seen entering and leaving the house and not always by the front door, going oftentimes over the rooftops to nearby stairways.
More interesting was the mystery substance found on the table inside. The material had been quickly flown by helicopter to the National Police laboratory in Rabat. It was learned that the strange plastic-like substance was a water-soluble compound that was also heat sensitive, causing it to disintegrate at temperatures above 95 degrees. The swabs from the tabletop contained the dangerous poison ricin. "At least," thought Afellay, "we now know what poison is to be used, though the delivery method is still unknown. If it was to be dispersed over the crowd, many would die."
Checking with agents that had been sweeping the medina overnight, he learned there were no sightings of the mysterious "tall one," nor of the thuggish cab driver, though a lead was developing on the cab number if well paid informants could be believed. Fingerprints did not produce any reliable hits of known suspects, proving only that the individuals sought had no contact with security forces prior to this time. A good deal still needed done in the next few hours and much was at stake. Giving last minute orders, Afellay then excused himself, walking directly to the area of the viewing stands in order to better prepare for the afternoon's event.
The morning sun broke through the autumn haze blanketing the awakening city. For Fettah Bou Chantouf, it was the day he had been working towards for years. No longer would he be one of the faceless masses, toiling to provide the barest essentials of life while also working to bring true Islam as preached by his spiritual leader. With a bit of luck this would only be the beginning. He imagined thousands of true believers rising up. Gone would be the Sufi mystics with their ceremonies involving trance, ecstasy and direct communion with God. From today onward that would be haram, forbidden. Gone also would be the insidious influences of the West which cheapened the true character of the people by making them slaves to consumer goods and the scandalous culture of the West. Most importantly, gone would be the hated makhzen and the surrounding attendants who kept them in power.
Today he and Hasan would not take the chance of leaving the safe house until late in the afternoon. By using the hidden exit and taking separate routes to the reviewing stand area at the Bab Jebala, they should be able to lessen any possibility of capture. Each would be dressed in the appropriate costume for the Sufi brotherhood they were going to blend in with. He had chosen one of the larger groups, the Wazzaniyya.
All of their efforts came down to the next few hours. With luck, they would escape detection and be able to slip into the confusion at the parade assembly point on the Avenue de l'Unesco. Once in their respective groups, there would be too much noise and confusion for anyone to notice one more Sufi member. All was now in the hands of Allah.
Chapter 21 - Friday - 7:02 am
"Unless you put your hands in holes, snakes will not bite you." Moroccan proverb
Christopher arose, Eian excitedly shaking him awake with tales of djinns, ghosts and magic doorways. From his active retelling, Christopher could tell that Eian had taken in the story of Aladdin and the magic lamp, originally a Moroccan fairy tale, and mixed it with other stories including Spider Man. Reading and imagination in the young were to be encouraged, but sometimes the result was more than a seven year old mind could handle. Reassuring him that djinns did not live down the sewer drain and sitting on the toilet was not dangerous, he climbed out of bed and quickly turned the conversation to today's upcoming parade and festival and the chance to meet the King.
Mentally he made note of the day's activities. First the guests had to be seen to, with one couple checking out and another checking in early in the afternoon. The King's attendance only heightened the crowds and made for more excitement, if that was possible. Fatima would decide and prepare tonight's meal for the incoming guests. She would also slip out to hopefully catch a glimpse of the royal couple if at all possible, though a lot of work lay ahead since Christopher was going to the review stands early. Since she had prepared a vegetable couscous last night she promised to make b'stilla tonight and would go to the Bou Jeloud market early to get the necessary ingredients before the crowds made it impossible to shop. Hopefully she would also be able to catch a glimpse of the royal couple before returning to the house and preparing the evening meal.
Chapter 22 - Friday - 4:39 p.m.
"The dogs may bark, but the caravan passes on." Berber saying
As the afternoon sun swung lower in the western sky, more and more people crowded the streets near the Bab Bou Jeloud. It was a festive crowd, with Moroccan flags flying everywhere along with pictures of the king visible on lamp poles. Street vendors were selling balloons and treats and there were an amazingly large number of visible security forces.
This was not just a religious festival honoring the city's patron saint. It was a reason for townspeople, especially those living in the medina to dress in their holiday best, bring their families and relish in the attention of the whole country as the King and princess consort visited the festival. Workers, given the day off in order to attend the days festivities thronged the streets and crowded every available rooftop.
Various Sufi brotherhoods began lining up now, and one could hear the blowing of long brass trumpets and the beating of tabals and krakebs, large drums and metal musical clappers used by the Gnawa. Two men in front of the procession were leading a light colored camel for Dbiha, the animal sacrificed at the shrine along with several bulls, their meat being distributed to the poor.
The noise level increased dramatically with the arrival of the first group of officials from the city and the King's Guard of Honor, arrayed in front of the reviewing stands. Darting through the growing crowds were children trailing balloons or cardboard Moroccan flags.
This was the major Sufi celebration in the city, honoring the founder and patron saint of the city, Mouley Idriss II. It was also a chance for each tarika to exhibit their brotherhood to the assembled spectators. Coffee shops were overflowing with men and women greeting each other; drinking and laughing while their children played in the crowd.
Into this swirl of sound and color came Christopher with Eian in hand. Eian had made a special double-sided cardboard flag at school; Moroccan on one side, US on the opposite, proudly waving it above his head. They joined the small international delegation at the reviewing stands and smilingly met the various gathered officials.
Suddenly the royal couple appeared, at ease among their subjects, but surrounded by a scowling retinue of bodyguards. Heightened security was very evident today. Each of the gathered officials was introduced along with the various delegations and then it is over. Christopher barely had time to say
welcome when he and Eian are shunted off to the side, much to the annoyance of Eian, who loudly proclaimed that he could see much better up on the stand than down on the street level. Overhearing this, the princess whispered into the ear of a close-by attendant, who then moved Eian to a spot in front where he could easily see the passing groups, most walking, many carrying giant portraits of the King, but a few on horseback with antique silver-chased rifles from centuries past.
The dissonant noise grew louder from cheering crowds, musical instruments and chanting. In front of the viewing stand jubilant marchers walked past the royal couple. The various Sufi groups with their brotherhood flags flying start passing by the royal review. First came the Siqilliyya with their white djellabas, red tarboosh hats and polyphonic voices. Next the Chargawiyya, then Aissawa, the Hamadcha in their brilliant red robes. Finally the Jilala, followed closely by the Wazzaniyya, all interspersed with mounted riders on Arabian horses, various craft guilds such as potters, wood workers and leather craftsmen as well as men balancing silver tayfar, conical tagine-shaped containers containing symbolic offerings to be placed on the saint's tomb.
There is a constant rhythm of music throbbing from the passing brotherhoods. The whole flowing mass moved as one organ; Ebbing forward, then halting, then surging forward again. Many in the crowd are overcome by the pulsating sounds of the drums, the blaring of the single note horns and the passion of the moment. Spectators sprinkle orange water on the passing participants and shout out "Allah Akbar, God is great!" The noise, tension and excitement continued to build as the crowd grows more and more raucous, the musicians and singing creating a bewitching and joyful feeling.