by Nathan Ronen
“No, thank you, I’m not hungry. I’ll just have some tea,” Arik replied, joining along in the mutual display of oriental manners.
“How about something stronger? Do you still like whisky?” Kadiri asked. He produced a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s Silver Select bourbon without waiting for Arik’s reply. “On the rocks, or do you prefer it straight?”
“On the rocks would be great.”
“So how’s the intelligence business going?” Kadiri asked.
“You, more than anyone, know how hard it is to assess success in our world. They don’t give us credit for things that don’t happen. For secrets that aren’t stolen, or for buses that don’t explode.”
“True,” said Kadiri. “Today’s spy is not the spy we once knew. Today, a spy can’t function in the field without an air-conditioned safe house in a good area or a five-star hotel with a pool or Jacuzzi, right?”
“Jewish spies don’t go on picnics,” Arik laughed. “The last time the Jews went on a picnic, they roamed the desert for forty years.”
Abdelhak laughed along politely. He wasn’t familiar with the tales from the Old Testament, or the New Testament.
“So, what’s this urgent matter that brings you to Morocco? Something you couldn’t discuss over the phone?”
“We have a reasonable suspicion that a coup to depose your king is in the works, originating from Marseille, France. We’ve intercepted some routing of funds intended to finance activity by the Maghreb Islamic Jihad, the organization that’s already responsible for a terrorist attack that targeted you last week, as well as in 2003. We still don’t know who’s responsible for transferring the money to fund the operation, but we suspect the Qataris.”
“Why would they want to hurt our king, who is Amir al-Mu’minin22? Morocco’s supreme council of religious sages, headed by the king, issued a fatwa emphasizing the need to make a distinction between ‘terrorism,’ which is strictly prohibited under Islam, and jihad in the name of Allah. The fatwa explains that there are many ways to carry out jihad, including jihad of the mind and jihad of the pen, and that jihad involving weapons should only be used as a last resort,” Kadiri played the innocent.
“We think the Islamic Jihad wants to harm him because he’s considered a pro-West king, and is preventing them from expanding their sphere of influence in Africa,” Arik said.
“You must know that I need proof and more specific intelligence. We’re constantly receiving information about such schemes, and it’s properly handled. I’m also curious why you would come all the way here to tell me this—what’s in it for you? What are your expectations from us on this topic, other than the gratitude that you’ll receive, of course?” Abdelhak initiated the negotiations so typical of his part of the world.
“Our agenda here is twofold,” Arik said. “Anything related to the Islamic Jihad is of interest to us. First of all, they’ve already infiltrated our neighbor, Egypt, and brought on the Islamic Brotherhood revolution there, which is also strengthening the Hamas in Gaza. In addition, they already have a presence in the Sinai Peninsula, from which they threaten the city of Eilat on the Red Sea, right on our border. And we have information that the unrest you’re experiencing in your country, from the seemingly spontaneous protests in Moroccan university campuses to incidents taking place on Fridays, as people leave the mosques, is all a result of external sedition, originating in Marseille.”
“Do you have proof? Names? Facts? Documents? Recordings?” Kadiri asked.
“We do. But it’s classified material, and revealing it would expose our sources and methods of operation, which I can’t do.”
“You’re staying at La Mamounia Hotel, right?” Abdelhak asked, as if he himself had not authorized hosting Arik there. “I’ll look into that info with my people in Rabat and get back to you. I’ll be happy to get some more specific intel: what exactly are the conspirators planning? Who are these people you know about in Marseille? Do you know who’s funding them?”
Arik decided he had shared enough information. He diverted the conversation to a different track. “I’m leaving tomorrow evening. I’m going to take a little walk in the Old City market to buy some gifts for my family. Any chance of us meeting tomorrow around noon for a light lunch, so we can gossip a bit about the Paris of old?”
“I’m sorry, I’d really like that, but I don’t know if I’ll have time to make it back. Tomorrow at dawn I’m traveling to the province of the city of Tan-Tan, on the border of the Western Sahara, where I’m gathering the heads of the tribes to find a solution for this Polisario problem we’ve been having. Colonel Kureishi will take care of all your needs here.” He rose from his seat. Arik had the strange sensation that this was not the same man he had socialized with in the past. Kadiri was wonderfully polite and had entertained him in accordance with traditional eastern customs, but his attitude had been cold and distant.
Could it be that the suspicion was only in Arik’s head, and Kadiri was merely in a rush to see the women waiting for him in the next room?
They shook hands, and Arik went down to meet Akil on his way back to the hotel.
Agitated, General Abdelhak extracted his encrypted cell phone from his pocket and, despite the lateness of the hour, called Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri, Morocco’s minister of the interior and the king’s elder brother. He knew that the prince was eager to hear what information the senior Israeli Mossad operative had brought with him.
Prince Mansouri picked up immediately. “Well then? Has the doe come to the hound dog to ask for his help?”
Abdelhak talked quickly, excited. “They’re on to us. They still haven’t recognized that it’s us, but if they involve the French, someone might talk. We have to expedite the course of Operation Emissary of Islam. The previous format, as originally planned, isn’t suitable anymore. We can’t progress slowly and build the momentum of a grassroots rebellion. We have to get this thing done quick and dirty.”
“Does he suspect anything, your Jewish friend?”
“I don’t know. That man is dangerous. I once heard someone say that if a cobra bit him, the snake would die from his venom.”
“If that’s the case, maybe we should take him out before he returns to his country? Make sure he’s involved in some car accident, or maybe use our friends to stage some Islamic Jihad attack on his hotel, with plenty of noise and blood.”
“Attack the La Mamounia Hotel?” Kadiri couldn’t believe his ears.
“Are you having problems hearing or understanding?” the prince spat out maliciously, hanging up.
* * *
22 Commander of the Faithful, a title usually bestowed upon a caliph.
Chapter 40
Jemaa el-Fnaa Square, Marrakesh
“What would you like to eat this evening?” Akil Kureishi asked. “We could go attend the Fantasia Moroccan Dinner and Show, which I personally don’t like, since it’s a fake show for tourists. Or we could go to an authentic Moroccan restaurant I know and recommend, located in a big tent, with authentic Berber music.”
“Why don’t we eat here?” Arik said, pointing at the square, with its bustling stalls and locals sitting on simple wooden benches.
Akil was appalled. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. There’s a security issue, as well as a hygiene issue. I don’t think you could stomach the local standards of cleanliness. Besides, I need to coordinate with the police chief in order to guarantee your security.”
“The truth is, I’m not hungry. I’m tired and must have a slightly upset stomach,” Arik said, trying to get rid of his escort officer.
“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” Akil asked in amazement, feeling his entire plan to receive a hefty commission from the manager of the restaurant to which he had intended to steer his guest slipping from his grasp.
“Yes, thank you, and tomorrow morning, immediately after breakfast, I’d be happy to g
o for a walk with you in Marrakesh’s ‘Medina.’”
The limousine reached the hotel’s entrance, and Arik disembarked. In his room, he changed into a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt and went out again. He saw the square, illuminated with myriad lights and flashlights, across from him, and began to walk toward it.
Akil remained sitting in the darkened limousine in an alley across from the hotel, lurking in suspicion. Why had his guest been in such a hurry to get rid of him? Was he seeking a prostitute for the night? Why hadn’t he asked? After all, Akil could hook him up with anything, including drugs. Or perhaps he was on his way to meet some other secret agent? The moment he saw Arik leaving the hotel and heading toward the large square, he produced a small two-way radio from his pocket and hysterically blurted out a medley of commands in Maghreb Arabic. He then exited the car and began tracking Arik on foot from a safe distance as he drifted away from the hotel toward the food stalls in the large square.
Arik was fascinated by the sight of the human throngs, consisting of a combination of local villagers wearing colorful jellabiyas and shoulder bags made of embroidered cloth, sitting on benches alongside tourists from all over the world. As the son of a humble family who owned a store in the Haifa Market, he wanted to get a sense of the local people, so different from the Arabs he knew in the Middle East, and get a taste of Morocco’s authentic flavors.
The atmosphere in the square resembled a giant, disorganized circus. Storytellers were spinning their tales dramatically in the Berber language, dancers were twirling everywhere, and magicians were working their wonders; folk healers extracted teeth with pliers or offered the false teeth of the dead to their living clients. Vendors were selling used eyeglasses for pennies. The sounds of musical instruments, from drums to one-string violins, filled the square with a discordant cacophony. Snake and monkey tamers pursued and harassed the tourists. Fortune tellers, peddlers and panhandlers huddled everywhere.
From the corner of his eye, Arik perceived two figures shadowing him. His hand reached mindlessly for his thigh; however, his Glock 21 gun wasn’t there. He decided to let himself be swallowed by the crowd, usually the safest destination, and felt regret for abandoning the Three Graces, his security team, in Paris.
A tantalizing smell of mutton led Arik to a simple but well-lit stall in the center of the square. He sat down amidst the Berber villagers, their clothes emitting the intense smell of sheep. The owner quickly cleaned the communal table with a wet, filthy rag, immediately loading the table with a variety of bowls containing large, bitter olives and red-hot peppers. Arik mirrored the locals, who were running wide swatches of frena pita bread through mashwaya salad, made of blackened vegetables including peppers, tomatoes, hot peppers, onion, garlic and eggplant. The stall owner encouraged the stranger who was eating his simple food enthusiastically, serving Arik fried sardines in a spicy sauce, as well as a tin plate taken out of the tabun oven, containing fish fillets swimming in a yellow sauce with chickpeas and garlic. More bowls with peppers grilled on the sawa, or barbecue, in a variety of colors, were brought to the table, and the stall owner pampered him with a generous helping of roughly sliced fennel seasoned with sumac and served with fresh radishes in argan oil, as well as fried eggplant salad with pickled lemon and hot merguez sausage.
The food was amazingly tasty. Between courses, he was served a bowl of sour harira lentil and tomato soup, which Arik drank down, partaking, along with his tablemates, in a yellowish couscous dish fragrant with saffron, served with cooked vegetables on a colorful ceramic tray. In the coal-fired oven, a variety of small earthenware pots, single-serving tajines, were simmering, concealing a melt-in-your-mouth slab of lamb with root vegetables or veal meatballs on a bed of potatoes and chickpeas.
His tablemates laughed loudly as Arik’s face contorted in response to the spicy food, encouraging him to try everything. They spoke to him in the Berber language, while he replied in French. His skill for interpersonal communication, which had always aided him in recruiting agents and informants, was serving him well.
Colonel Akil bin Kureishi was standing in the shadows with two members of the Moroccan Preventive Security team, amazed to see the esteemed visitor sitting there, eating with his hands and laughing heartily with his neighbors like a commoner, one among equals in the crowd of Berber villagers rife with the stench of goat on a filthy wooden bench. Akil was not oblivious to the fact that the stall owner was pampering his guest with a boukha beverage of home-brewed fig arak, while he, as a Muslim, was unable to join him, certainly not in public.
Arik’s skilled eyes once again detected the silhouettes of the people tailing him, but this time, he identified Akil’s uniform-clad form next to them. Feeling relief, he rose from his seat and gestured Akil over to come join his table. The officer approached like a scolded child, dragging his feet and sitting down with obvious reluctance among his countrymen, who immediately made room for him, exhibiting their reverence toward his spotless uniform and his rank.
Arik signaled the stall owner to pour them some tea. Delicate, gilded glasses were placed next to them, accompanied by a stack of homemade almond cookies and marzipan-filled dates. The stall owner filled the ceremonial, silver-coated barad teapot with two heaped tablespoons of green tea leaves, thrust in a substantial fistful of mint leaves and poured boiling water over them. Five heaped tablespoons of sugar were added to the teapot amidst energetic stirring with a wooden spoon.
The mint tea was ceremoniously poured from a height of three feet or so directly into every glass in front of the guests’ admiring eyes. Arik noticed that along with the foamy tea, the corpses of some small green insects were also floating in the steaming, fragrant beverage. This fact did not inhibit Colonel Akil from sipping his tea with a loud slurping sound, voicing his appreciation for its dreadful sweetness and the tender, melty almond cookies.
Arik eyed the tea in disgust. He did not wish to insult his host, but on the other hand, also could not bring himself to drink the beverage. Akil, who was watching Arik with a look of query, understood. He casually extracted a gleaming white handkerchief from his pocket, placing it as a filter over a clean glass and pouring Arik a new glass of tea that was bug-free. He shook the handkerchief, signaling to Arik that he could now drink. Arik still hesitated.
Akil examined him with curiosity and surprise. His mystery guest had eaten the food along with the natives in accordance with the local custom: with his hands and using a spoon. And now, suddenly, he was squeamish?
Arik picked up the tea, mentally whispered, here goes nothing, as he used to when he was a child, and drank it down with evident pleasure. A broad smile spread across Akil’s lips. This visitor was his kind of guy.
Producing a stack of hundred-dirham bills from his pocket, Arik asked for the bill. His host cast a wary glance at Akil, the Moroccan intelligence office, who gazed back at him unflinchingly. The stall owner looked down, telling Arik in his stammered French, much to his surprise, that the food was on the house, as was the custom with personal guests.
Arik would not consent to this. He quickly estimated the cost of the meal based on what seemed like a reasonable price, then doubled it in accordance with the free-market rate on the local currency, adding a 100-dirham tip, and finally folding up 500 dirham in bills and thrusting it into the hands of the frightened stall owner, who was still gazing at Akil, appealing for his permission.
Shaking the stall owner’s hand, Arik left the rolled bills in his hand, and departed, along with Kureishi, toward the Mercedes waiting on the sidewalk, its door open, surrounded by three police officers. Once the car had taken off, one of the police officers approached the food stand, extending his hand with a grim expression. The stall owner handed him half of the payment.
Chapter 41
The Market in Marrakesh’s Old City
The following day, after breakfast, Arik inserted a toothpick between the door and its jamb, which would allow him to
discern instantly whether his room had been searched. He left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob. Colonel Akil bin Kureishi was patiently waiting for him in the hotel lobby, wearing civilian clothing this time. A jeep driven by armed police officers was waiting outside, escorting the black Mercedes.
“You wanted to see the Old City?” Akil reminded him, determined not to lose track of his prey this time, and to lead him directly to the souvenir shop owned by his relative in the heart of the Medina, as the Old City was called by the locals.
During the ride, Arik sat in the back seat, thinking about Eva and his infant son Leo, and wondering whether his son had grown any new baby teeth, and whether he was already crawling. This stage, in which the child made immense progress with every week, was a significant one. As a parent, was he doomed to once more miss these phases in the development of his young child, the way he had once missed out on the majority of his now-adult kids’ childhood?
They arrived at the square’s sprawling plaza. Jemaa el-Fnaa Square looked empty compared to last night. The food stalls had disappeared, replaced by stalls of merchandise targeting the tourists who were streaming out of their big buses.
“Come with me, and please stay close. We’ll be walking through an immense maze of alleys and small markets, each of which specializes in a specific product: the spice market, the carpenters’ market, the leather market, the potters’ market, the gold market, the carpet market, and the shoe and cloth market. Watch your pockets. Expert pickpockets roam these alleys.”
They entered the market through the northern corner of the square where they had left the vehicle, with the police officers tracking them from afar, holding submachine guns in their hands.
Arik appreciatively examined the colorful piles of spices, displayed in a variety of cones in myriad scents and hues. The bustle of the market reminded him of his childhood in Haifa’s Talpiot Market, where his parents had a fruit and vegetable stand. He loved the simplicity of people in the market and the energy in the air, and happily sampled the variety of olives preserved in coarse salt offered to him.