The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  “Your … friend, she is quite interested in Moroccan architecture?”

  I looked at her. She bent over and started photographing the tiles embedded in the concrete flooring. Biker boy was especially enjoying that view.

  “She’s interested in any architecture from what I’ve gathered.” I said. I was already looking away from him, trying to deflect the small talk so I could focus my attention on finding this Mr. Gharnati needle in an Arab-Berber haystack.

  Just then, still bent over, Dark saw us and smiled. She walked over and extended her hand, which he ravenously accepted. “Monsieur al-Gharnati, is it not?” I gave her an inquisitive look that she mostly ignored. Instead, still holding his hand, she asked, “Your name, it refers to Granada, correct?”

  He smiled and nodded, only then releasing her. “It does indeed. Family rumors are that my father’s ancestors were among the last expelled from Spain when Granada fell. Most of us, though nominally Catholic by law, remained true to our faith and returned to Morocco. Only a very few remained.”

  “Is anyone going to tell me how you two knew each other?” I asked. I was by then too frustrated to be embarrassed.

  “I was told that I’d be looking for a lovely woman and a man, and the woman would be carrying a camera.”

  Dark looked at me like I was stupid. “I assumed that is why you insisted I wear it around my neck.” I was so busy looking for stereotypes that I’d forgotten about the camera. She wasn’t goofing off; she was doing precisely what she needed to in order to attract Gharnati’s attention. “Besides,” she continued, speaking to her admirer, “if you don’t mind my saying, you look more Spanish than Arab. I assumed from your name that would be so.”

  Gharnati laughed. “You are very observant, and yes, I have been told that before. My relatives back in Spain might disagree; however, I consider myself to be pure Arab.”

  “Of course,” Dark said, smiling back.

  “Not to be rude, but I understand you have some information for us.” I said.

  “Certainly.” He extended his palm for us to accompany him through the courtyard. While he and Dark chatted in French about the Grand Mosque’s architecture or God knows what else, he led us through a series of arches that border the minaret, across the courtyard, and to the farthest point, a promontory at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. There he stopped, with the sound of waves breaking against the rocky outcropping drowning out his words enough that we couldn’t be overheard. “All of the materials used to build this mosque, except for the granite columns and glass chandeliers, came from Morocco. The design itself is Moroccan. It is truly our crowning glory,” he said.

  “Yes, it is quite remarkable.”

  He nodded and smiled as though he’d built it himself. “I wish we could have talked inside. I would love to show you the glass floor and retractable roof. From inside, you can see both the sea bed and the nighttime stars.”

  “Perhaps another time, then,” Dark said, smiling.

  He bowed his head low enough I thought it might snap off at the neck. “That would be my pleasure, Dr. Dark.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Ah, yes, to business.” He gave me a weak smile and adjusted his glasses. “A very typical American trait. So much like the Germans, you Americans.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

  After I’d managed to distract him from drooling all over my business partner, Gharnati spun us quite the tale of the nest of so-called terrorists Hardesty was so enamored with. In fact, the words he used were “petty thieves and sex traffickers” to describe the Seize Mai group. When I pressed hard against that assertion, he said, “In our opinion, the U.S. is using the terrorist label both as slander against our country and as a means to keep this all top secret. Any competent bit of police work would point out they are nothing more than criminals. We have tried to stamp them out, but like cockroaches, when the lights dim, they seem to grow in number.”

  “Well, these petty criminals just tried to kill us and did a darn good job in the attempt,” I said.

  “For that, I am sorry. I promise you, we will get to the bottom of it and those responsible will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” Gharnati looked at Dark. “You have my word on it.”

  She bowed in return. “Captain Gharnati …” Dark started.

  “Captain?” I asked, interrupting. The only thing I would have pegged him as captain of was his local Club du Sports Bikes.

  Dark said, “Sorry, I forgot your French is not so good. Captain Gharnati leads a squadron of the Royal Gendarmerie, the military police.” She stuck her chin out at me to tell me to shut it and turned to him again. “If this is just a ring of sex workers, why would they risk such a bold attack? We were speeding through the streets like madmen with guns blazing. I thought I was in an American movie.”

  “I am certain this isn’t terrorism, but that doesn’t mean there are not zealots involved. Whatever is going on is deeper than prostitution, but I haven’t been able to discover what. That is how you can help. As far as I can tell, you are the first ones to positively tie Vasyl Rudenko to an active ring such as the one in London.”

  “Why doesn’t the Gendarmerie pick up Rudenko or Seize Mai?” Dark asked.

  “We have been asked by the Americans to assist, but not to interfere. Rudenko could have some important contacts. And I suspect your leadership wants them, not this group of whores and thieves. If you are involved that gives them plausible deniability if something goes wrong.”

  Dark looked at me.

  “He’s right, and it explains Hardesty’s moves. We aren’t officially on the case, so we can’t be officially traced to the government.”

  “So, if we catch them, they think we are the government, and if they kill us, the government says they knew nothing about us.”

  “Welcome to America,” I said.

  Gharnati handed us a set of keys and a slip of paper with nothing on it but an address. The address pointed to the same ghetto from which I’d obtained my gun. The keys were to a car, a green Fiat parked nearby. “Contact me before you leave Casa, and I will send someone to retrieve the car.” We shook hands and Gharnati turned to leave, stopping just long enough to add, “Jeanne, whatever these people are doing with all the money their prostitution ring brings in, a lot of people seem to be willing to go to any lengths to keep it flowing. They are not terrorists in the strictest sense, but I assure you, they are just as dangerous. Be very careful.”

  “Oui, we will.” She smiled, took two steps, stopped, and turned. “Goodbye, Yusuf, and thank you.” She walked off, leaving me staring at the grinning captain. I didn’t know she knew the English word for au revoir.

  “Goodbye, Yusuf?” I asked, once we were in the car.

  “Oui, a very nice man, don’t you think? So thoughtful to provide a car without being asked. Quite refined, especially for a military man.”

  “If you ask me, that whole I’m a captain in the Gendarmerie bull doesn’t fly.”

  “You suspect he was lying?”

  “I suspect everyone. It’s my job. But this guy was more than a little too slick for my tastes.”

  “Foss, I don’t think Hardesty would have given you a contact who lies about working for the military police. Besides, if you had been looking, you would have noticed he carried his credentials in his bag.”

  “You mean his murse.”

  “What is murse?”

  “Man Purse.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, this guy doesn’t dress like he’s military.”

  “You are one to talk, Signore Armani.”

  “Hey, I’m wearing a business suit, appropriate for the work. You don’t see me dressed like a preening peacock.”

  “Says the man in the hundred-dollar tie.”

  “It—it was on sale.”

  “Uh-huh. And the pocket handkerchief as well?”

  “Look, it’s hard getting clothes to fit me. I have to get stuff tailored.” She raised
an eyebrow at me, and a smirky smile took half her mouth. “Never mind my clothes. How do we know we can trust what Gharnati said about our little terror group? He told us nothing that would explain the polonium. As far as I’m concerned, the only useful thing we got from that conversation was an address.”

  “Danni’s obtaining the polonium was classified top secret. Talking to you about it in public would have been inappropriate.”

  “Well, okay … but I still don’t trust him.”

  “Okay.” She smiled and turned to watch the passing scenery while I focused on following the GPS’s confusing directions. Every so often, she’d glance back, still full of smiles.

  Smiles shouldn’t feel like insults, in my opinion.

  15 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  Foss took us through the twisting confusion of Casablanca’s streets. I suspect the layout of the city would have been more intuitive were Foss listening to the GPS woman’s directions instead of fuming that Captain Gharnati was flirting with me. We drove to the rough end of town into a tenement that looked like a maze of informal housing interspersed with shanties that would have been more at home in a refugee camp. Foss told to me to be wary as he’d purchased illegal firearms from a contact who lived not far from where we parked the car. I offered to remain with the little Fiat, fearing that our only means of escape might be stripped to its metallic skeleton before we returned.

  “You’re safer with me,” was his reply.

  I consented and followed him along the narrow dirt strip that bifurcated long rows of attached housing. The air was filled with sounds and smells: of pungent food, burning wood, children’s laughter, friendly arguments, and bicycles plowing through muddy earth from the prior night’s driving rain. The density of the buildings, or perhaps my over-imaginative synesthetic brain caused me to smell smoke wherever sunlight hit the buildings. I could imagine the plaintive cries were flames to roar through such close quarters. It made me happy most of the homes were not built of wood. Despite the obvious poverty, it was remarkably clean, with no more foul odors than one would have expected of similarly dense neighborhoods in any city. In fact, one lovely resident had surrounded her small abode with lilies, the scent of which wafted in the slight breeze. The whole area smelled purple. We wandered to and fro, looking for the number thirteen structure at which Yusuf told us we’d find Rudenko. It was difficult as we weren’t certain whether that was a house or a street number.

  “Too bad we can’t put this damned house in my GPS,” Foss said. He was walking with the strip of paper extended in front of him like a divining rod.

  “Since you don’t listen to her instructions, I’m not sure that would help.”

  We passed the same house twice, a corner structure with an outer wall that appeared to be made of warped plywood. Two men, one in a red tunic with a white head wrap and the other dressed in Kelly green, stood arguing in the doorway. Both stopped and watched us as we passed, but then resumed their discussion, which I believed to be about local politics or football. I couldn’t tell which and both confuse me equally. Foster was obviously concerned by their interest, but I sensed no untoward intentions from them. Indeed, the tones of their conversation reminded me of smoky clubs back home where the old men would come in the evenings to solve the problems of the world and have a few drinks. I assumed life must be that much harder in environments where they frowned on the strong drink. From the aroma of tobacco, I knew there were no such inhibitions on smoking. It made me want one. I stopped, to my partner’s dismay, and asked if they knew where number thirteen was. Both men immediately pointed in opposite directions and started arguing with each other.

  I smiled, thanked them both in my weak Arabic, and rejoined Foss.

  “Now you know why men don’t ask directions,” he said, frowning.

  “Because you are all too proud to say you don’t know. Why are men like that?”

  I looked to my right and saw a small girl of around eight years old playing in front of a low, cinderblock structure whose roof was no taller than Foss. The child had a Barbie doll with no hair and was pulling it via a rope attached to an old clothes basket.

  “Excuse me,” I said, speaking again in Arabic, “Do you know where I might find this address?” Being close to her, I was astounded at how clean she was, given she lived on a dirt plain and had been playing amid what was little more than a muddy pit. She wore a turquoise and purple dress over black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt. Her head wrap was also black, which she flipped off of her shoulders as though it was her actual hair. She smiled at me, a radiant, florid smile that stole my heart and refused to return it. I wanted to steal her, but didn’t think I could outrun her mother.

  “Let me see,” she answered, in English. “Mum, do you know this place?”

  I was vaguely insulted that she treated my Arabic as though I was a tourist, brushing it away with a swipe of her English retort. Her accurate assessment, however, made me like her even more.

  From behind a curtain of hanging clothes, a shapely woman in a purple frock stood from her washing and wiped her brow. She took a glance at me and then Foss. “Are you the police?” she asked. I indicated that we were not. She approached. “Then I wouldn’t come around here dressed like that unless you want to get robbed. Most people are kind, but not all.”

  I looked at Foss, who stood like a muscular mountain in a suit, and smiled. “We will take that under advisement.” I handed her the slip of paper with the address. “Do you know this place, please?” I asked.

  She looked at it and shook her head. “Sorry, most people don’t bother with numbers on their homes.” She nodded at hers. “My husband built this with his own hands before he died. No idea what my address would be.”

  “Number nine,” said her daughter. “Because I’m nine.” Her mother smiled and pulled her close.

  “I’m very sorry about your loss,” Foss said.

  The mother looked at him and smiled, showing a beautiful mouth with one missing tooth. If he noticed the loss, he didn’t show it, and his own smile emerged. “Thank you, but it’s been a while. My daughter doesn’t even remember him.”

  He nodded. “Even worse, in some ways.”

  “Yes,” she said. Moving almost surreptitiously, she wiped her eyes with one hand, smearing her face with soap in the process. “Let me see that paper again,” she said to me. I handed it to her. “Do you have a name?”

  I was about to give Rudenko’s name, but Foss interrupted to say, “Weasel.” Immediately the woman’s face twisted into a frown. “What you want him for?”

  “We just want to chat,” Foss said. “We mean him no harm.”

  I had a feeling that was not what she wanted to hear. “My partner is being gracious, but not entirely honest,” I said. “We think he is doing things that should not be done. Bad things. If that is true, then we mean him a great deal of harm.”

  The mother gently pushed her daughter away with an admonition to go play. “Good,” she said. “Very good.” She pointed to a low, brown house made of dried mud and stone no more than thirty meters down the road. The windows were a garish crimson color that screamed words I do not like to repeat. Just looking at the building caused murmurs in my mind that made me nauseous. “I don’t like how he looks at Salma, she whispered. The little girl looked up from her play as though she heard the comment. “He’ll be home. He’s always there in the day, but don’t expect him to open the door for you.”

  “It’s okay,” Foss said, striding towards the house, “I don’t intend on knocking.”

  We reached the house just as the sun began to dip below the line of houses, bathing us in long shadows. Foss stood outside, inhaling deeply as he did when trying to whip up his emotions. Normally, he approached such activities with a chilly calm that made his subjects both nervous and cooperative. However, with the mother’s hint of a more-than-casual interest in her daughter, his energy had spiked like a solar flare. His body posture was tense, with his left shoulder carried slightly
below his right and his head leaning ever so slightly to the side. I knew he intended to burst through the door at any moment.

  I placed a calming hand on his arm. “How do you know this is the right house? She could have been mistaken or lying.”

  “Because if she was you’d have known it and you’d have told me.”

  He was right and I had no response.

  “Look, I don’t intend on killing the guy, if that’s what you’re worried about, but we’re running out of time. If there’s more polonium out there, we need to find it and get it off the streets.”

  “Wait here one moment,” I said. Foster gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t move. I walked to the side of the little square house and then tiptoed to the back. The curtains were drawn and they were the same gaudy color as the window sills, which made my mouth fuzzy. I tried not to look. In the back was what I expected—a late model Mercedes Benz parked amid a pile of rubbish. It was not the pale color of the taxis, but silver. I returned to Foss who lurked in the shadows of the house across the narrow road. The last bit of sunlight fell behind Rudenko’s house, backlighting it. As I approached, the lights inside switched on.