Casablanca Blues

by Tahir Shah

  One by one they were thrust inside.

  The Falcon stood at the hatch, staring at Ghita’s face. He appeared genuinely pleased.

  ‘Dear Hicham would be proud of you,’ he said. ‘And I dare say he’ll weep a tear once he learns of your death. But that will be some time... for I doubt news reaches the mountains as quickly as it ought.’

  He nodded to the guard, stepped back, and the heavy steel hatch was slammed shut. A second later a pressure valve was closed, locking the door securely from the other side.

  Ghita threw her arms around the American’s neck.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘and you, Saed, will you forgive me?’

  ‘There’s enough air in here to survive for a while,’ said Blaine.

  Just then, there was a piercing sound.

  ‘Oh no!’ bellowed Saed.

  ‘Water!’

  ‘They’re flooding the chamber!’

  Blaine got down on his hands and knees and struggled to cease the flow streaming out from a duct. He was immediately knocked backwards by the force.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he yelled. ‘Quickly, look through all this stuff and think!’

  They rooted through all the junk – old shelving, bicycle frames and canned food, miles of nylon rope, coloured hose pipes, bottles of bleach, pots, pans, and what looked like an extremely old engine block from a Renault truck.

  Melodramatically, Ghita collapsed in the water and started to weep.

  ‘I should have guessed it – that Harass was the Falcon!’ she howled. ‘I always detested him. To think of it – he was almost my father-in-law!’

  The water inched up over the engine block. As it did so, Saed coaxed the others to move to higher ground.

  ‘If we climb up we may live,’ he said.

  ‘For how long? Until someone comes and lets us out?’ said Ghita.

  The shoeshine boy’s face dropped.

  ‘I hope so,’ he answered.

  Blaine, who had been standing in knee-deep water, glanced down at the water, then up at the ceiling. Slapping his palms together, he plunged his hands below the waterline.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Ghita incredulously, the water now up to her waist.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘But we have to work fast.’

  Blaine pointed to a cast iron ring in the middle of the ceiling. It must have been fifteen feet high above the floor.

  ‘Saed, can you get up there, and thread this through?’

  The shoeshine boy grabbed the end of the nylon rope and scampered up onto the pile of junk. Within a minute he had threaded it through the ring and lowered the end down.

  Quickly, Blaine tied it around the engine block, fastening it in a half hitch. Then, mustering all his strength, he heaved the engine block an inch at a time, up through the water until it was level with the middle of the hatch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ghita asked.

  ‘Making a battering ram,’ Blaine said, straining to keep hold. ‘The only question is how much force we can get behind it.’

  Tying the cord, he stepped back into the corner, and thrust the engine block at the door. It slammed home with an almighty crash!

  ‘Again!’ Saed yelled. ‘Do it again!’

  Blaine did.

  And then again, and again.

  Each time the engine block slammed against the steel, it stressed the hinges a little more. He continued, again and again, until his hands were bruised, and until the water was up to his chest. Raising the battering ram a little higher, to be clear of the waterline, he thrust it with all his strength.

  Suddenly, the hatch bowed outwards and the water began to drop. Ten more thrusts and the hatch was breached.

  One at a time they crept out into the corridor.

  Saed tiptoed through to the warehouse.

  But he was soon back.

  ‘They have all gone,’ he said. ‘And they have taken all the money with them.’

  ‘The music’s still playing in the club,’ said Ghita.

  In the warehouse, Blaine double-checked for the red book.

  ‘It’s definitely not here,’ he sighed.

  Then, lifting his gaze from the desk, he scrutinized the walls.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Ghita asked, taking a step closer.

  ‘Listen, you go back to the apartment with Saed,’ he said, ‘and I’ll follow in a bit.’

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Not this time.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because...’

  ‘Because it’s no place for a woman?’

  Ghita glared at the American.

  ‘Because you need to make contact with the news team at Globalcom. Is there anyone left you can trust?’

  ‘Miss Ross,’ Ghita said. ‘I can trust Patricia Ross.’

  One hundred and twenty-one

  Blaine strode into Club Souterrain battered, bruised, and soaking wet. He was fearful of being discovered there but, as he reasoned it, if the money had gone, then the Falcon and his henchmen had certainly left, too.

  The Russians had moved from the card tables to roulette. A pair of them were seated, mountains of coloured chips piled up on the baize.

  The croupier spun as he called last bets.

  Not far from the blurred wheel, Rosario was playing a Scott Joplin number, her black gown gleaming, a faint trace of perspiration on her brow.

  Reeling about near the bar was the police commissioner. He was drinking with a European man. Each of them had a glass of Scotch in their hand.

  Following Blaine’s instructions, Ghita and Saed had made their way out through Hotel Touring, and were soon on the street. The exit had been much easier than the route in through the tunnels.

  As she scurried towards her secret apartment, Ghita felt a pang of terrible fear. She couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Blaine.

  Now there were two men in her life to worry about.

  Inside the club, the barman was preparing a round of Caipirinhas, rolling the limes to get them extra juicy. He had been on edge all evening, as he always was on the nights that the Falcon came in. Pouring a triple measure of Cachaça into the shaker, he began slicing the fruit.

  Blaine sat down at the bar, his back to the room. It wasn’t a minute before a girl approached, and asked if he wanted some company. He slipped her fifty dirhams.

  ‘Go and tell the pianist to join me for a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Who should I say is inviting her?’

  Blaine thought for a moment.

  ‘Coccinelle,’ he replied.

  At that moment there was a commotion at the roulette wheel. The manager was called to sanction a particularly large pay-out to a monstrous bearded Muscovite.

  Rosario glanced round at the disturbance, and found the hooker’s lips whispering in her ear. Slowly, she allowed her gaze to move over to the bar.

  A minute later she was seated beside Blaine.

  ‘Good evening my dear Coccinelle,’ she said with a laugh.

  The American kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘How did you get so filthy, my dear?’

  ‘I came the long way round.’

  ‘Through the medina?’

  The American shook his head.

  ‘Through the sewers,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ Rosario replied tersely. ‘And what brings you down here, into the shadows?’

  ‘A proposition.’

  The pianist giggled.

  ‘I’m far too old to be propositioned by such a handsome young man,’ she said.

  Blaine took out an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘I’m willing to give you this,’ he said.

  Rosario swallowed hard.

  ‘The laissez-passer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want in return?’

  ‘Something I imagine you can get quite easily,’ the American said.r />
  One hundred and twenty-two

  Mimi lay on her bed, brooding on how best to get revenge.

  She kept thinking back to the way she had been wooed, and to the endless stream of gifts. There had been diamonds the size of walnuts, bottles of rare perfume, buckets of caviar, meals at expensive restaurants, and even a pedigree dog.

  She looked down at the Chow Chow, who was licking his lips.

  ‘I should send you back to that beast!’ she screamed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The dog scampered over and began to bark, and Mimi slipped on a silk robe. She had almost forgotten that Ghita had called and invited herself over.

  Pacing through the sitting-room, she opened the door.

  A large box of Belgian chocolates in her hand, Ghita introduced herself.

  ‘For you,’ she said.

  Mimi invited her in and opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot rosé.

  ‘I’ll only drink champagne when I am sad,’ she said, downing a glass of it in one gulp. ‘It helps to dry the eyes from the inside out.’

  After a second glass, she opened the chocolates and gulped down a handful as though they were peanuts.

  ‘I hate him,’ she said in a cold fractious voice.

  ‘You’re not the only one.’

  ‘But how did you come across this information?’

  Ghita picked out a morsel of fudge and tossed it to the dog.

  ‘I have a friend with a salon,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing he doesn’t know... nothing he can’t find out.’

  ‘It’s not Laurent Louche is it?’ whispered Mimi, her eyes glittering at the thought.

  ‘Well, yes, actually, it is him.’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Mimi poured more champagne and held up her glass. ‘Once I’ve got revenge you must promise to introduce me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Thank you! Now, my dear, please tell me your plan.’

  One hundred and twenty-three

  That afternoon, the directors of Globalcom met once again in closed session.

  As before, Harass was seated at the head of the table. He was still smarting at having heard that Ghita and her companions had escaped. The guards responsible had each lost the top joint of their little finger, Larbi as well. The punishment had been meted out by the Falcon himself with the cleaver he kept in his desk.

  Leaning back in the chairman’s seat, he surmised that Omary’s daughter was a spent force. The important thing now was to take a cleaver to the Globalcom brand – to chop it up, and to sell it off bit by bit.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘I have the honour of informing you that JFT’s acquisition of Globalcom is now ready to go through. The papers are drawn up, and await your signatures. Once this formality has been attended to, we can put the past behind us, and strive towards the future.’

  ‘But what about Mr. Omary?’ asked François Lassalle, smoothing a hand down over his hair.

  ‘Omary?!’ Harass let out a childish cry. ‘He’s gone! Finished! Kaput!’

  Hamza Harass took a gold Mont Blanc from his inside jacket pocket, and swivelled to where Patricia Ross was seated.

  ‘So... where are the documents for us to sign?’

  ‘In Mr. Omary’s office.’

  ‘You mean, in my office?’ he smiled, gave a wink, and stood up. ‘I’ll go and get them myself,’ he said, leaving the room.

  Ross reached for the phone, speed-dialling a number.

  ‘He’s coming there now,’ she said.

  One hundred and twenty-four

  The packing crate may have been damaged beyond repair, but it was a source of enormous joy.

  Through his incarceration, Omary had endured loneliness, violence, cold, and appalling food, but it was the lack of anywhere to sit that was the worst punishment of all. We take chairs for granted, perching on them, or reclining back at whim. Yet most of us have never had to consider a life without sitting down.

  The increased space was pleasing, too.

  There was so much of it that Omary found himself suffering from almost a phobic reaction. He couldn’t understand why he had been moved to the new facility, or given what he regarded as luxuries.

  He sat on the crate, filled with new vigour.

  At two in the afternoon, the guard tramped fast down the corridor outside the cell. The familiar sound of keys jangling was followed by old rusted hinges opening.

  ‘Get against the wall!’ the officer ordered, ‘and splay your legs.’

  He placed something on the packing crate and was gone.

  Cautiously, Omary turned around.

  Confused, he looked at the object as though it were from another century, another world. Bending down slowly, he picked it up – turning it in his hand.

  It was a miniature battery-operated television.

  He flicked it on, and the screen came alive to a news station – the Globalcom News 24.

  Omary gasped. Then he laughed, his eyes welling with tears.

  Someone out there wanted him to watch the news. At first he thought it must have been sent by Ghita, smuggled in with yet another bribe. His eyes narrowed and he felt his back warm with disapproval. But then, as he considered it, he realized that he had missed something, something important.

  On the packing crate there was a note card. He picked it up, held it into the light.

  My dear Hicham,

  I wanted you to see for yourself the grand plan we have for your beloved firm.

  Hamza H.

  One hundred and twenty-five

  The giant wall of television screens in Omary’s office were trailing the main news story of the hour – that Globalcom was about to be dismembered, its assets acquired by JFT Holdings.

  Ghita was sitting on the edge of the desk when the Falcon entered.

  Attired in a pinstripe business suit, charcoal grey, her hair was pulled back tight in a bun, her feet strapped into sensible shoes. She had prepared for the moment, coaxing herself to stay composed.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Falcon,’ she said in an even voice.

  ‘Ghita! How the hell did you get in here?!’

  Harass exhaled angrily.

  Glancing fast around the room, he said:

  ‘I’ll have security sling you out in a moment. Now, where are the documents I had left here?’

  ‘Is this what you are looking for?’ asked Ghita quizzically, holding up the red ledger.

  Harass did a double take.

  ‘How did you get that?!’ he roared.

  ‘From a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Let’s just say that she wears a size sixteen.’

  ‘Give it to me!’

  ‘I will. But first I want to know one thing... How did you run the underworld for so long without anyone suspecting?’

  Hamza Harass stepped towards the desk. His bitter expression fortified with arrogance, he snatched the ledger from Ghita’s hand.

  ‘Because I own the system,’ he said. ‘I have everyone you could imagine on my payroll – the police, ministers, judges, even prison guards. They all quake in fear at the thought of me – at the thought of the Falcon.’

  ‘And the money you had piled up in your warehouse last night – what’s it all from?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Harass glowered. ‘It’s from my business operations, of course.’

  ‘And which operations would those be?’

  The Falcon took half a step forward. His face was inches from Ghita’s own.

  ‘I have a number of businesses,’ he said with a forced smile.

  ‘Would they by chance include gun-running, drug dealing and protection rackets?’

  ‘What if they do?’

  ‘Please answer my question.’

  Harass let out a laugh.

  ‘How else do you expect anyone to amass proper wealth in a country such as this?’ he bellowed.

  Striding back across the room, he reached for the metal handl
e. As he did so, Ghita called out:

  ‘One last thing, Mr. Harass! There’s someone who would like to speak to you.’

  ‘I don’t have time for conversations. The Board are waiting in the other room.’

  ‘Oh, but I do think you have time for this conversation.’

  Right on cue, the door to the adjoining room opened, and Mimi stepped in. Like Ghita, she was dressed in a formal business suit, her face quite devoid of emotion.

  ‘Hello Hamza,’ she said.

  ‘Er... Um... Hello Mimi. What are you doing here?’

  ‘She wants to know why you have taken another lover,’ Ghita said.

  Harass cracked his knuckles.

  ‘I don’t have time for this!’ he yelled.

  ‘You don’t have time for Mimi, you mean?’ Ghita said. ‘And what will you do with Fifi when you are sick of her – throw her out into the gutter as well?’

  Mimi stepped forward.

  She might have shouted something, or wept, but she was too irate. So she just stood there in silence.

  Harass looked at his watch, then at his mistress.

  ‘You’re nauseating,’ he said. ‘Everything about you fills me with disgust!’

  Ghita jerked a finger at the wall of TV screens.

  As if by magic, the Falcon’s explanation from moments before was being replayed. It was followed by footage of him in the warehouse, surrounded by all the bales of money. A voice-over explained how Harass had arranged for the heroin to be stashed at Omary’s home – and that it had come from his own narcotics trafficking business.

  ‘You did all the work for us,’ Ghita said, motioning to a pile of black boxes. ‘I’ve never seen so many CCTV hard drives in my life.’

  The Falcon’s brow beaded with sweat.

  ‘I’ll have them all erased,’ he said. ‘The films will never see the light of day!’

  Ghita looked down at the floor modestly, then up into the eyes of the man who was so nearly her father-in-law.

  ‘I suppose you could do that,’ she replied. ‘Except that it just went out live on Globalcom’s news.’

  One hundred and twenty-six

  The next morning, a red petit taxi pulled up at the gates of the Omary mansion. It was a bright day, the light tinged with spring. Ghita got down, and was followed by Blaine. As they walked over the damp lawn, their hands touched.