‘Very good doing business with you, monsieur.’
‘And you, madame.’
With that he opened the back door of the Mercedes and ushered me out of his life.
Fifteen minutes later we had cleared Marrakesh and were on the autoroute heading north. We had agreed that if we were stopped by the police or questioned at a checkpoint, Mahmoud would explain that he was my father’s driver, and that I was a woman with mental challenges etc.
But in the two and a half hours I was in this vehicle we were never stopped once. Sitting in the back, drinking in the air conditioning, I fell into a subdued daze. There was one checkpoint on the outskirts of Casa but the officer simply looked in, saw a besuited driver and a veiled woman in the back seat, and waved us on.
At around midnight we pulled up in front of the apartment building that Ben Hassan called home. I handed Mahmoud two thousand dirhams – despite his protests that his employer had said I wasn’t to pay him – and asked him to wait for me outside for an hour.
‘If I don’t come downstairs within an hour, you can head back to Marrakesh. But if I do need you before then . . .’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
The truth was that without the false passport I hoped Ben Hassan would provide, I would hit the end of the line. But just in case he was out for the night, or if the situation turned tricky, at least Mahmoud might be persuaded to drive me to Tangier. I would then have to find a black marketeer for a way out of the country. My hope was that, if I flashed ten thousand dirhams in front of him, Ben Hassan would come up with the necessary goods and even get me north to the ferry for Spain by morning.
I got out of the Mercedes and loitered by the front door until a young couple came out of the building. Before the door could slam behind them I had raced inside and up the five flights of twisted stairs to Ben Hassan’s apartment. I rang the bell. No answer. I rang it again. No answer. So I held it down for the better part of a minute.
Then, out of nowhere, the door opened. Ben Hassan, his capacious kaftan stained with sweat, looked as if I had got him out of bed.
He seemed just a bit confused to find a woman in a burqa standing in front of him. I pulled the veil back. The shock on his face was considerable but he swiftly wiped it away.
‘So . . . the most wanted woman in Morocco drops in to say hello.’
I pushed past him into the apartment, saying:
‘I need a shower and a passport.’
Twenty-seven
HOT WATER FROM a shower spray. Proper soap and shampoo. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A large towel. A bed with clean sheets. And before that, a late-night supper and several very welcome glasses of wine.
Basic comforts can seem like tremendous luxuries when you have been denied them for a considerable length of time.
As cautious as I was about being in Ben Hassan’s presence I also knew from before that he had a nurturing side. Seeing me exhausted and rank, he roused Omar from bed and set him to work. On my way to the bathroom I was handed one of Omar’s freshly laundered light cotton djellabas. Given his slightness – and all the weight I’d lost – it actually fit me. He also saw to it that the clothes I was carrying with me were thrown into the washing machine. When I emerged from the shower (having spent almost twenty minutes under its blessed downpour), dried and changed into the clean djellaba, I found that a small supper had been laid out for me.
The wine was balming. And the pastilla – a pie made with cinnamon, harisa, almonds and a very dead pigeon – was quite delicious. I had decided on the way from Marrakesh that my strategy with Ben Hassan would be to say nothing about Paul and the entire fraudulent loan for Samira’s apartment. My desire here was to get a new passport and make it to Tangier as quickly as possible. But when Ben Hassan offered hot water, clean clothes, supper and a bed for the night, my debilitation won the argument. While drying off in the bathroom I inspected the marks on my face and legs. The bruising from the beating had virtually vanished, but my cheekbone felt fragile to the touch, and the deep rings under my eyes made me look like a haunted insomniac. The facial sunburn was still apparent but subsiding, but there were still severe scars on my legs. I knew that I had to see a doctor as soon as possible about STDs and any lasting vaginal injuries. Just as I probably needed an MRI on my face and head, and to deal with the slight ringing that was still omnipresent in my ear. Had he burst an eardrum when he’d slammed his fist against my left ear, then kicked me in the head?
I wondered: How much did Ben Hassan know of all this? As he’d called me ‘the most wanted woman in Morocco’ he was evidently aware that I was still being sought in connection with the disappearance of my husband. No doubt he’d also seen the television footage of the charred body in the desert.
But I was going to mention none of this. I would accept his bed and food for the night, and clean clothes. I would negotiate a price for the passport, and would hopefully be on my way by midday tomorrow.
So I ate my pastilla and drank my wine and let Ben Hassan do the talking.
‘I must say, from what I’ve learned of your exploits, you’ve been quite resourceful,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the abuse you received. Though I am no doctor, my untrained eye tells me you might have a bone or two broken around your left eye socket. Still, your attacker did get his comeuppance, did he not? And as I am not the police, who am I to pry into how you burnt that man to death. Or what you were doing with him in the desert.’
I stared straight at his corpulent face.
‘That young man and his accomplice seized me off a street in Tata, drugged me, drove me out into the middle of the Sahara, raped me and left me to die.’
‘And you struck back.’
‘I never said that.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Nor did his accomplice.’
‘So he has been found?’
‘That’s for you to find out. But as your hope is, I presume, to be out of the country tomorrow . . .’
‘Can you facilitate that?’
‘For a price.’
‘And what is your price?’
‘Let’s discuss that in the morning.’
‘I’d rather discuss it now. I need a false passport. You are the one person I know in Morocco who can provide me with such a document. Here I am.’
‘Availing yourself of my hospitality.’
‘I can leave, monsieur.’
‘And go where? Back into your native garb? How clever of you to go behind the veil to get through all those tiresome checkpoints. How did you manage the identity-paper problem?’
‘I found a solution.’
‘I’m certain you did.’
‘So how much for a false passport?’
‘We are all business tonight.’
‘I need to know your price.’
‘I presume you were robbed of everything.’
‘That’s right. And I am not going to take out a loan with you.’
‘Smart woman. But if you have no cash to hand . . .’
‘I have a little.’
‘And how did you manage to obtain that?’
‘I sold what jewellery I had in Marrakesh.’
He made a point of carefully studying my left hand.
‘Indeed. All vestiges of your marriage vanished.’
‘Except the mental scars.’
‘You must have done well, given that your most collectible Rolex is also no longer on your wrist.’
‘I had some debts to settle.’
‘Ah yes, I figured that someone must have aided and abetted you in evading the police. And he must have cost plenty.’
‘Actually, he might have been the most honourable man I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m so pleased for you – honourable men being so infrequent in your life.’
‘Present company included,’ I said.
‘So . . . I am right in presuming that you have little money.’
‘You told me your standard price for a false passport was ten thousand dirhams.’
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br /> ‘I also told you that was my rate for friends. If the individual is problematic – as in, wanted by the police – the price trebles. So I am afraid thirty-five thousand is the amount needed.’
‘Twenty thousand is what I can pay – and that must include transport up to Tangier. I’m certain you can get Omar to drive me.’
‘That will be an additional five thousand dirhams.’
‘It’s only a few hours’ drive.’
‘But think of the risks involved in getting you there.’
‘I can put on the burqa and use the ID papers I’ve got. Then, when we’re at the port, I’ll change back into my normal clothes and use the passport you’ve given me to leave.’
‘My, my, you have this all worked out already. Most impressive. But there is still risk involved for myself and Omar. Still, as a way of showing goodwill, twenty-five thousand dirhams all in.’
I put out my hand.
‘Deal.’
He seemed supremely uncomfortable taking my hand. As before his felt like a hot, damp cushion.
‘What time can I get the passport tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘As it is now almost one-thirty in the morning I will want to sleep until ten. It will take an hour or so to put the passport together. I have the camera for the photograph. I will need to get the appropriate entry stamp made in the document, and also have it logged on the immigration computer system. That involves me contacting an associate who does this sort of thing. I have decided, given your facility with the language, that you will be French. But even at the Port of Tangier the immigration officers now have computers. My associate has a way of ensuring that your date of entry will pop up when they scan your passport . . .’
‘And does this cost extra?’
‘Of course not. It’s all part of the overall fee. Tomorrow we can choose a name for you. Nothing too absurd. We’ll sleep on it.’
‘Fine. I could certainly use some sleep.’
‘Your bed awaits.’
‘One last question – in my absence have there been any sightings of my husband?’
‘None whatsoever since you tried to chase him down in Ouarzazate.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘Like his other wife?’
‘Perhaps. And I know full well that you are desperate to ask why I didn’t give Samira the money that Paul borrowed for her apartment? And whether I contacted Paul, telling him that, by helping buy his daughter and grandson an apartment, he could atone for his absence from Samira’s life?’
‘Did I even indicate that I was concerned about this?’
‘My source in Ouarzazate informed me that you certainly seemed vexed by it. The truth is—’
‘The truth, monsieur, is that dealing with you is like walking through a hall of mirrors. Nothing is ever real. So be it. I don’t need to know why Samira didn’t get the money. Or if you set all this up as a trap to ensnare my now vanished husband. Let that be on your conscience . . . if you have one. You will be getting two thousand seven hundred dollars from me tomorrow for one hour’s work and a five-hour drive to Tangier which you yourself won’t have to make. Our business is therefore done for the night. I thank you for the hospitality.’
A very long silence followed, during which Ben Hassan got up and poured us both an eau de vie. Then he finally spoke.
‘I don’t entirely agree with your character assessment of me, madame. Yes, I do have my tricky side – and a very long memory for wrongs rendered. But I am also an excellent friend. As I was to your husband all those years ago. And the result . . .’
He held up his two battered, deformed hands.
‘We all have our ways of dealing with the injustices and sorrows piled upon us, madame. We all have our ways of getting through the day. And we all have our moments of malevolence . . . even if, in your recent case, the malevolence you meted out on your attacker was wholly merited. Pushed to the wall, some of us surrender to the inevitable. Whereas there are others – like you, like me – who turn feral. And who fight back with the same brutality as that visited upon us. Because we know that, in life, the central preoccupation is still the same as it was when we all lived in caves – survival. You’re a survivor. I salute you for it. But don’t try to take the moral high ground here. You are exactly like me. You killed to stay alive.’
‘There’s a difference here – you killed as an act of revenge.’
‘No – the difference is that, unlike you, I didn’t have the opportunity to strike back immediately. Two crushed hands leave one at a profound disadvantage. But I did strike back eventually, to prove I would never again be cowed by such animals. And to let my little community here know that too . . . not that I ever actually admitted to such acts. I didn’t need to. Everyone knew. Everyone also knew they could never pin the crimes on me, because I was too shrewd to get caught. But the real lesson that everyone around here gleaned from my strike back was: Now you know that I will kill to stay alive.’
Five minutes later, I was alone in the living room. As much as my analytical side wanted to take apart the skewed logic of Ben Hassan’s attempts to draw a parallel between us, another part of me simply thought: By this time tomorrow I will be in Spain. Ben Hassan will cease to have any impact on my life, unless I allow myself to be haunted by his version of morality. The truth is, haunted I would be. And by so much. But why add Ben Hassan’s toxic reasoning to the mix on a night when I was crawling into the first proper bed with proper sheets that I had slept in for weeks?
Having started the day at before sunrise, hearing my friend Aatif being beaten and robbed in the dark, sleep did not take long to overtake me.
Then I was awake and wondering where I was, feeling as though I had been unconscious for a very long time. Getting up and wandering out into the hallway I passed by Ben Hassan in his ‘office’.
‘My, my, you certainly needed your beauty sleep, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘What time is it?’
‘A few minutes before midday.’
‘Oh my God . . .’
‘Not to worry. Have your shower. I will tell Omar to arrange breakfast for you. Meantime I have a few phone calls to make, and then we can get down to business.’
‘Will there be enough time—?’
‘To take care of everything and get you packed off? Absolutely. Now go. The sooner you are showered and dressed . . .’
I hurried into the bathroom, noting with pleasure that, as before, a hairdryer had been left out for me, as well as my freshly laundered clothes. Ben Hassan was a dangerous customer, but he also knew how to play the thoughtful host. Twenty minutes later I was sipping proper coffee and eating two croissants in Ben Hassan’s kitchen. At which point I heard his front doorbell ring. As Omar went to answer it Ben Hassan came into the kitchen.
‘Enjoying your breakfast?’
I heard voices down the corridor.
‘Do you have visitors?’ I asked.
‘We have visitors. Last night, after you went to bed, I thought about our little exchange. I also considered the complexities of risk, and the fact that there are some clients who are just too hot to handle. Which, on reflection, is most certainly the case with you. Another little matter entered my thinking – I need to keep my friends and associates happy. Helping you flee the country would certainly anger several of the men now down the corridor, all of whom want to talk with you. They are members of the Sûreté. Or as you Americans put it – the Feds.’
‘You bastard,’ I hissed.
‘I won’t contest that. At least be thankful that I allowed you a shower, a good meal and an excellent night’s sleep before calling them.’
Then he shouted something in Arabic. Moments later I was surrounded by three men in suits and a uniformed police officer. One of the detectives spoke to me in French, asking me to confirm my name. I told him what he wanted to hear.
‘Now, we would prefer not to use handcuffs . . .’ he said.
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p; ‘I’ll go quietly.’
‘Very wise of you, madame.’
With two men in front of me and two behind, I was marched out. Ben Hassan insisted on accompanying us to the front door.
‘Do say hello the next time you are in Casablanca,’ he said as a parting benediction. ‘And do remember the subtext to all this – survival is everything.’
I was marched down the stairs and into a waiting unmarked vehicle, accompanied by two police cars blaring their sirens as we shot at high speed across the city. Neither of the detectives with me said anything. I shut my eyes. Why am I surprised it is ending like this?
The windows of the car were virtually blacked out, allowing me no view of where we were heading. After quarter of an hour I saw through the windscreen that we were entering a modern block of buildings, then driving down a tunnel into an underground garage. Once there all the officers exited their cars before I was allowed to get up. The same deal as before: two in front of me and two behind. I was marched to a door which only opened after one of the cops had punched in a code. The walls inside were painted an institutional green. I was taken up a set of stairs, and then down a concrete corridor until I was steered into a room furnished only with a metal table, four chairs and a mirror – which, no doubt, was two-way, allowing those on the other side to look in on the suspect under interrogation.
The cops deposited me in this room, then turned and left without saying anything. The door slammed behind them with a formidable thud and I heard a bolt sliding into place outside. Do you really think I’d try to make a break for it? I felt like shouting. Instead I sat down on one of the chairs, put my face in my hands and thought: Whatever you do, insist on a lawyer, and refuse to answer any of their questions.
But then, out of nowhere, I heard the bolt being slid back and the door opened. In walked a Western woman, late thirties, dressed in a crisp linen suit and a pressed white blouse, a bulging leather briefcase in her left hand. She came over to me, her hand extended.
‘It is so good to finally meet you, Robin.’
I accepted the outstretched hand, trying to work out who this woman was and why she was here in a Moroccan police station.
The Heat of Betrayal Page 31