by Roger Weston
He didn't get the impression that these two were on vacation. Why would they be going to a place like Tetouan? Most tourists going to Morocco prefer Tangiers. Juan wondered if they could be in the drug trade. Tetouan was a traditional bandit town, though now-a-days they'd given the place a face lift in attempt to draw tourists who'd have stayed away due to the town's reputation for relentlessly harassing and fleecing its visitors. If these two were in the drug trade, they wouldn’t last a month. No, it was something else. Whatever it was, Juan’s intuition told him that they were up to something and he suspected it was related to the money.
They weren't talking, so Juan lifted his bag and started back toward the compartment. Inside, he once again walked the aisles looking for Devin. This time he took note of a man sleeping on a bench. He was covered with a blanket and had a magazine over his face.
Juan kept walking. Devin had nerve following the girl this long without a disguise. Clearly he was an amateur. This also showed Juan that Devin had no idea he too was being followed. Juan only hoped Devin wasn't recognized before he figured out just what the sleazebag was up to.
Juan walked through the waiting passengers to the other end of the boat, where he found a place to sit down. He thought more about entering Tetouan with weapons. He shouldn't have any problem, but he hated to risk such a careless border crossing. But he was on the move and wasn't about to give up his security. He hadn't lived to be fifty-five for nothing. In his line of work, he never knew when a rival cartel would send their angels of death his way. He was no fatalist. Had he been a fatalist, he'd already be dead. Grim pictures flooded his mind of the day when they tried to wipe him out in Guadalajara. Juan learned one important lesson that day. Never go anywhere without your gun, baby.
The boat rolled, and Juan nonchalantly reached into his jacket and ran his hand over the smooth metal of his pistol. He'd chance customs. He'd done it so many times he was sure he'd breeze through while the rest of the passengers waited in line to have their underwear fondled by the border guards.
Finding a comfortable seat by a window, he gazed out across the sea for a few minutes. He tried to recall Hemingway’s quote about Africa that he liked so much, the one Devin had told him. “Once you've hunted a man you can never again be happy tracking an animal”—something like that. Hemingway was right. No African safari could compare with the safari Juan was going on.
The girl and her husband or boyfriend walked by. As they passed, Juan looked at them. There was a somberness about them that wasn't right for your typical American travelers. They were running from something. Juan was sure. He tried to piece together some scenario of why Devin would be following these two, but nothing made any sense, so he gave up. He’d find out soon enough.
***
Paul and Kelly sat on a bench on the boat’s outer deck. Paul stared out across the sea. Within an hour, the sun fell behind a deep, dark carpet of clouds that seemed to be closing in on the boat. Wind stirred the surface of the Mediterranean into a choppy boil. When passengers went inside the accommodation, gusts slammed the door shut behind them. The boat rolled and plowed into fattening swells. Sheets of spray showered the decks. Several passengers got sick over the rail, then hurried inside.
As Paul watched the wild ocean-play, he thought of the night a year ago that ended his partnership and his friendship with Ryan. He never saw a shadow of it coming, never perceived that in an instant his life would plunge into such darkness. It was as if he had been the victim of a cruel trick. One mistake in a sleep-deprived state and it was over. Nothing had ever caused him to reexamine his life as this nightmare did. Now he loathed himself. If only Kelly hadn’t strolled into his life, maybe he could have forgotten about killing his best friend. No. He never could. He watched as wind tore the tops off the waves and stirred the sea into an angry stew and wondered how he would ever be able to live with himself again.
After a while, he took Kelly inside, a decision he immediately regretted. The stench of vomit permeated the air and offended his nostrils. Paul scanned the wide seating area and saw numerous passengers with their faces in bags or turbans. Agony clung to their faces like impending death. The people on the floor looked miserable. Paul helped Kelly navigate across the slippery floor.
They arrived in Morocco around four p.m. Paul was relieved to get off the boat, but felt tense. He took slow and deep breaths. Soon he forced himself to smile and relax, and he did, despite the fact that he had come here to hunt down the world’s most wanted terrorist.
***
Juan got out of the cab slowly at the border crossing. He still had the rancid taste of puke in his mouth. He paid the cabby and walked toward customs, still nauseous. At least now he could function. On the way back, he would fly. He would never ride another boat in this lifetime if he could help it.
He walked to the front of the line and waved to the two customs agents at the window to come and talk to him. One of them with a big ruddy nose and slick hair opened the door and came outside, almost hesitantly, as though irritated. He looked Juan up and down with suspicion as he approached. His look suggested that Juan would be searched with extra scrutiny.
“I must talk to you,” Juan said, leading him a few steps out of earshot of the people in line. Juan put a fistful of Euros in his hand and said, “I don't have time for formalities, sir. I'm in a hurry.”
The customs agent looked at the cash. Juan could sense the anxiety that overcame the man. He glanced nervously back at the agent at the window, a man whose suspicious gaze showed that he wanted to know what was going on. Again the agent eyed the cash. He wiped his hand across his ruddy nose as if offended and said, “You are mistaken. We don't do things like this.”
Juan nodded. He reached into his pocket and produced another fifty dollars, which he handed over. Again the agent took the cash. “I said we don't do things like this, sir.”
Juan said he was in a hurry and gave him another fifty. After pocketing the cash, the man took Juan by the arm and led him through the checkpoint. Juan caught a taxi to the bus station. As he anticipated, a local approached him right away.
“Do you want a guide?”
“Maybe,” Juan said, “have you seen an American couple come by here in the last few minutes? The woman has long red hair. There’s no way you could’ve missed her.”
The guide smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. “They were just here. I can take you to them.”
Juan narrowed his eyes. “If you're lying to me, man, I'll mess you up.”
The guide looked indignant. “Lying? No, sir, I can take you to them now. Who could say such a thing to me? You should not talk to me that way. I am a trustworthy guide. I’m not like the others.”
“If you know where they are, show me.”
CHAPTER 11
Tetouan, Morocco
After checking the bus schedule, Paul and Kelly took a taxi into town. Tetouan was located amidst mountains and greenery, around fifty miles east of Tangiers. The city was surrounded by a belt of orange orchards and fringed with palm and cypress trees. The town was pleasant, filled with white stucco houses clinging to barren hillsides. Green mountains rose in the background like an army standing its ground.
Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, Paul took the photo out of his pocket that he'd taken from the dead man on the beach in Lagos. He read the address written on the back to the driver, a well-groomed man who said little, but watched Paul in the rear-view mirror.
“Yes, I can take you there,” the cabby said, making eye contact with Paul.
They drove for several minutes into an area of cobblestone streets and large houses hidden behind whitewashed walls.
“This is it,” the cabby said as he slowed down and pointed a stubby finger at a tall pale wall that stretched along the street and framed the ornate gate of an estate.
“Keep going,” Paul said.
The cabby stared at Paul in the mirror, but nodded and kept going.
Paul told him to drive by several chea
p hotels. After the third one, Paul slapped his hand against the cabby's seat and said, “What do you think you're doing? These hotels aren't fit for a dog.”
The cabby's eyes shot open and he eyed the rear-view mirror. “What! You said you wanted cheap. I'm just—”
“I said hotels, not whorehouses.” Paul threw some money at the cabby. “Stop the car.”
The cabby glared angrily into the mirror.
“Now.”
The cabby pulled over. Paul and Kelly got out. “Sufi,” Paul said, slamming the door.
The cabby yelled profanity in Arabic, then sped away, the back fender rattling as the car hit potholes.
“Great,” Kelly said. “Now we have to find another cab. Why didn't you just tell him to take us somewhere else?”
“I don't want him knowing where we're staying,” Paul said.
“Why?”
“Trust me. It’s not safe.”
She glared at him with her mouth half open. “You feel safer out here?”
“Come on,” he said. “That last hotel should do.”
“I'm not staying there. You just said it was a whorehouse.”
Paul started walking.
Kelly ran to catch up with him. “I want to find a nicer place.”
“Nice hotels draw attention. You’ll be safer here than in one of those tourist traps.”
Kelly sighed and clutched her travel bag tighter. They continued to walk several more blocks. Paul finally stopped in front of a dilapidated white-washed building with a dusty door. When they entered, darkness enveloped them in a dank, dreary hall, which was the lobby.
The hotel clerk was a plump man who nodded much, acted impatient, and didn’t smile. He led Paul and Kelly down a series of unlit halls. As they were passing a dark closet, the clerk motioned with his hand and said, “The lavatory.” At their rooms, he handed Paul the keys and faded away into the dimness of the hallway. Paul unlocked one of the doors. A damp, musky smell drifted into the hallway.
“No way,” Kelly said, surveying the dim, cell-like room with horror. The room held two swaying bed frames with a couple of tired blankets over frayed sheets. Beyond that, the room was empty. A shaft of evening light angled in through a small square window, illuminating the dust that was suspended in the shadowy box.
“This'll do,” Paul said.
Kelly glared at him with horror, and Paul wasn't surprised. The room was worse than he would have expected upon checking into an American prison. He was relieved to see that there wasn’t a slit in the door designed to feed the poor souls in solitary confinement. He tossed Kelly the key to the room, closed the door behind him, and walked to his room across the hall.
Once settled into his cell, Paul checked his e-mail. He read an encrypted note from Ted Walker. Ted said there was no new intelligence on where Abu Bakr was, but an increase in communication indicated that he was planning his next terrorist attack soon. Paul shot him back a response that he was pursuing a lead in Morocco.
Several blocks from the hotel, Paul hired a cab to the medina, where he and Kelly wandered on foot. The medina was the usual scene of shops and stalls and narrow streets and dim alleyways with exotic aromas and strange sounds. Traditional Arabic music filled the air and seemed to follow them around like a lost spirit moaning in eternal agony.
A guide with a hungry demeanor quickly spotted them, and at Paul's request, took them to the home of a maker of traditional desert robes. Paul bargained with the jovial man for two full-length linen djellabas. One of the hooded robes was black and the other light blue. After accepting a cup of tea, Paul purchased a colorful hijab and two pairs of leather shoes.
Afterwards, he paid off their guide and handed Kelly the light blue robe and the hijab.
“Thanks, but I prefer what I’m wearing.” Kelly motioned to her jeans and t-shirt.
“Put it on,” Paul insisted.
“Why?”
“Really, Kelly, you need to start trusting me. Put it on.”
CHAPTER 12
Dressed in the djellabas, Paul and Kelly picked up a rental car, and then staked out the home they'd passed earlier in the day in the cab. They parked about a hundred yards down the street in front of the high walls of another estate as they watched the home for most of the evening. As the sun fell over Tetouan, the white-washed buildings and surrounding walls began to take on a purple shade. They turned to indigo and finally black as night overtook the city.
Cloaked from head to toe in his black robe, Paul got out of the car and walked by the estate they’d come to watch. He knocked on the gate, but there was no answer. As he loitered around the walls, he whistled a tune.
Back in the car, Kelly asked, “Did you see anything?”
“Looks like they’ve got an electric gate,” Paul said.
“That's it?”
Paul nodded.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Kelly said.
“I don't know.”
“This is ridiculous. We’ve been here for hours and you don’t even know what you are looking for? How is this supposed to help us find Ryan? Forget about this. Let’s go to Madagascar.”
“I told you I’m not going there. The answer to what happened to Ryan is here in Morocco.”
Kelly took a deep breath, then sighed and slumped down in her seat.
Another hour passed and Kelly was having a hard time staying awake as they waited for whatever it was that they were waiting for, but just five minutes later a Mercedes pulled up to the entrance of the home they were watching. As the car turned, its headlights illuminated the gate and it began to open.
Paul grabbed the door handle of their car. “Park on the next street over,” he said to Kelly, as he jumped out. He started running towards the home. By the time he reached it, the gate had almost closed. As he'd already determined from his singing, there were no guards or dogs. He ran in and ducked behind a water fountain. The Mercedes eased under a large stucco portico, and the headlights went off, leaving blackness.
Paul watched the driver enter the house, his silhouette outlined by light flooding through the open door. Paul waited about fifteen minutes, though it seemed longer. He slowly walked to the car, finding the door unlocked. The interior light didn't illuminate when he opened the door. Paul got out his pen light and checked to see if the bulb had been removed. It had. The owner of the car was smart enough to know that the interior light made him an easy target at night. Paul felt his pulse quicken.
Using the pen light, he searched the car, but found nothing.
Moving quietly to the front door of the house, he turned the door knob silently. Opening the door a crack, the smell of a meal cooking filled his nostrils. He listened for a couple of minutes hearing nothing. Slowly, he pushed the door open a little wider and looked in, nobody in sight. He entered the house, walking on the outsides of his large boots. As he walked, his feet moved soundlessly over the tile floor. He noticed that the kitchen was off to the right and an empty living area lay straight ahead. Beyond this living area, floor to ceiling windows revealed a vast yard that sloped downward. Exterior lights blazed on several imposing palm trees that were strewn across the landscape like advancing soldiers in a field.
After the scanning the yard for a moment, Paul took a right into the kitchen. He noticed that steam rose from a huge pot of boiling soup. That meant whoever had just entered the house was not alone. The pot was quite full, but hadn’t been boiling for long; otherwise, Paul figured, more of it would have evaporated.
The remnants of chopped vegetables were spread around a paring knife which lay on a large cutting board. A serving spoon also lay on the counter. Paul picked it up and dipped it into the pot, taking a taste of the soup, spilling a little on his robe. He'd tasted better. He set the spoon down and turned to leave the kitchen when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. In a rapid, flowing movement, Paul swiped the paring knife from the cutting board. He spun and pivoted, winging the cutlery, which sunk to the hilt in the tender area of th
e man's upper arm. Surprise seized the man's eyes, wrinkling the skin around a cleft in his forehead. Paul noticed that the man didn’t react to the pain. He hadn't even winced when the knife entered his arm. The man just glanced at the knife and the blood staining the sleeve of his robe.
And he didn't falter or drop the gun that he gripped in his large brown hand.
All this Paul noticed in a fleeting moment along with the cleft in the man’s forehead. He looked like the man who Paul was after, but Abu Bakr wasn’t known to have a scar on his face. In the next moment, Paul attacked. The man's reaction was delayed by surprise. He tried to swing his gun back on, but Paul was too fast, rushing and grabbing his shooting arm. The man heaved his weight against Paul, knocking him off balance, and together they stumbled back into the kitchen. Paul kept a firm hold on the man’s shooting arm, but the man's grip on the weapon was relentless. Paul slammed the shooting arm against a cabinet several times. While the door to the cabinet cracked, the man’s grip didn't fail. Still holding the man's arm just below the elbow, Paul lunged toward the huge pot of soup and forced the man's hand into the boiling broth. Looking back into the man's eyes, Paul watched fear transform and melt away as the man smiled at him.