by Jon Land
The club was located in the modern section of the city, but the streets nonetheless maintained a flavor similar to that of the market square. The bargaining proved just as intense and the crowds almost as numerous even at night.
He arrived at Le Club Miramar in time to snare a front-row seat for Tara’s performance. She stepped onstage to the applause of the audience, dressed in a green bodysuit that looked like the skin of a snake. Blaine recalled Abidir and his drugged cobra and wondered if the connection might have been intentional. Intentional or not, it lasted only as long as Tara’s snake suit stayed wrapped round her body, which was not long at all. She peeled it off in great reptilean strips, much to the delight of the audience, which was composed half of locals and half of tourists, all of whom were eager for a chance to slide currency into Tara’s G-string, which before long was the last bit of clothing she wore. The more money, the longer Tara would stay before the customer. One customer paid enough to have his entire head swallowed in the radiant beauty’s giant breasts.
At last Tara made it over to McCracken and gazed at him as if genuinely interested. He leaned a bit forward over the stage to slide an American bill into place, making sure Tara saw the note sandwiched within it. The dancer nodded slightly, eyes telling him to stay where he was.
Blaine waited through her set and that of another dancer. The next approached him early in her routine and eyed McCracken seductively. He took the hint and came forward to slip her the standard gratuity. She. grasped his hand tenderly, and drew his face to hers. While kissing him, she passed a note into his left hand. He completed the kiss without even acknowledging the presence of the paper. He gazed at it only when the dancer had parted from him and he was certain all other eyes were fixed upon her. It was a cocktail napkin with an address printed upon it:
Dar es Salaam, Derb Raid Jerdid ….
And beneath that, in English:
Table five in three hours … .
McCracken rose from his seat, and another eager patron took his place before he even had a chance to slide the chair back under the counter.
Three hours later to the minute, Blaine entered the Dar es Salaam restaurant, which featured authentic Moroccan cuisine such as couscous and pastilla. The dinner rush had long wound down and the maître d’, dressed in formal robes, approached him straightaway.
Blaine interpreted the bulge of his eyes as disdain for the ruffled appearance the long day had given him, but those same eyes froze when Blaine produced the note directing him to table five. Without further hesitation, the maître d’ led him to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant. He pulled back a curtain and beckoned Blaine to enter. This done, the curtain was drawn closed again. Behind it was a semicircular booth designed to accommodate four or five people and Blaine slid into it.
Minutes later he caught the sound of footsteps approaching before a shadow reached up for the curtain.
“Mind if I sit down?” asked an older, graying man with a British accent.
“Sorry. This booth’s reserved.”
“So I was told,” the Brit came back, pushing his disheveled hair from his forehead. He stepped into the private booth and drew the curtain behind him.
Blaine tensed. “I have a meeting here.”
“Yes, with the infamous El Tan. Well, ease up, old boy. You’re looking at him.”
The Brit sat down across from McCracken in the booth. He was wearing a loose-fitting, crinkled beige suit stained by sweat at the underarms. His shirt was yellowed white and his beard as much from yesterday as today. His eyes were dull and listless. He breathed heavily.
“The name’s Professor Gavin Clive,” the older man told Blaine. “The El Tan business is just a cover. Keeps people off my back when I don’t want them there, eh?” He pulled a pocket flask from his suit jacket and poured part of its contents into the empty water glass before him. “Never been one to trast what someone else pours for me. You read me, sport?” A sip and a pause. “You buying or selling?”
“Depends on how you answer a few questions.”
Professor Clive stopped the water glass halfway to his mouth and gazed at him knowingly. “One of those, eh? Yes, I suspected this latest business would bring your kind out of the woodwork.”
“And just what is my kind?”
“Fixer, repairman; what’s in a name anyway?” Clive finished and sipped from the glass. “Don’t care much, either.” He started coughing and kept at it until his face purpled. The spasm over, he lifted the glass back to his mouth in a trembling hand and drained whatever contents hadn’t slid over the sides. “The liver’s gone, lungs too. Cancer and plenty more eating them away. I’ve got six months. The last two won’t be pleasant.”
“I haven’t come here to kill you.”
Professor Clive looked almost disappointed. He sighed loudly. “I guess Sadim probably knows letting me live is a greater punishment for my sins.”
“Sadim?”
“The man behind what I suspect you’re after. The man I’ve been fronting for. It’s what I do, old chap. Front for other people. Got no identity of my own I care to talk about much. Used to, though.” Clive refilled his glass and held it up to the booth’s dim light in order to stare at the brownish liquid reflectively. “A college professor, would you believe it? Specializing in artifacts and gems. Did favors for people, appraisals. Lost my job teaching and went into it full-time. Began fronting for people who didn’t want their identities made public. Lost my identity in theirs. It worked for a while.”
“But not anymore.”
“Maybe the cancer started it, I’m not sure. I tell you, you look back on your life at my age it’d be nice to be able to take something out. Me, well, all the withdrawals been made already.” He started on his second glass and gazed warmly across the table. “You’re an easy man to talk to. Hell of a tiling, since I gotta figure you got your own problems.” Clive took three more hefty sips. “Along with a pretty good notion of what brought you here. It’s in your eyes, old boy, the uncertainty. And the fear.”
“Atragon,” Blaine muttered.
“Sorry, didn’t get that.”
“Atragon. The name given to certain crystals with inexplicable powers and properties.”
Clive nodded. “You reached me through the same channels as the others. They’ve been inactive for months now. But this is my ‘post’ as they say and I decided to see you for curiosity’s sake, knowing the kind of man you’d be. These crystals have changed you, that much I can tell.”
Blaine started to speak, then stopped.
Clive’s whiskey-stained voice turned distant. “Can’t deny it, can you? Everyone who comes into contact with the crystals says the same thing. There’s death in them, has been ever since they were discovered. Everyone who’s ever gotten close has died.”
McCracken thought of T.C., and his stare was telling.
“Been that way for thousands of years, old chap.”
“I didn’t come here to learn about curses, Professor, and if you really want to help me, you’d—”
“I didn’t come here to teach you about them. But I’d be selling you short if I didn’t try to persuade you to abandon whatever quest you’re on.”
“It’s too late for that,” Blaine said almost bitterly. “There’s a madman out there, and these crystals might be the only way to stop him.”
Clive nodded knowingly, the glass an extension of his hand now. “It always seems to come down to that. History runs in circles, and the circles keep repeating.” His eyes sharpened. “The crystals aren’t your answer. Stay away from them.”
“I’ve already seen what they are. I had a sample in my possession until a few days ago. They’re just stones.”
“You don’t believe that. I can tell by your voice. You’re too damned sensitive to be so naive. You looked at those crystals and felt something. I can bloody well tell.”
“Where can I find the reserves, Professor? Tell me that, and I’ll leave you to your misery.”
&
nbsp; “It’s not that simple!” Clive blared, nearly spilling his whiskey. “For thousands of years they lay hidden until seismic changes brought them closer to the surface where once again they promised destruction. An entire civilization has already perished from the abuse of the power they hold. Don’t you know that?”
“If you’re talking about Atlantis, I don’t buy it. Myths have nothing to do with what I’m after.”
“They have everything to do with it, old boy.”
“Professor—”
“Just listen,” Clive said rapidly. “Hear me out. What harm can it do you?” He leaned forward and let the glass of whiskey go. “The people of Atlantis harnessed the power of what they referred to as a ‘firestone’. They found that when angled properly in relation to the sun, the stone could harness the sun’s rays and redirect them as a source of incredible energy. The closest thing we have to this process is the laser beam, but in Atlantis they harnessed the power totally. You called the crystal Atragon.”
“Yes, dark red crystals with many ridges—no one section totally symmetrical with another.”
“Yes! And each individual section, dozens on each crystal, is its own reflector. Sunlight channeled through the various chambers of these crystals created an energy source which powered the civilization of Atlantis through domed buildings which served as massive solar receptors. The amount of energy created, stored, was immeasurable.”
“I said I don’t believe in all this—”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. Just listen; you’ve got to,” Clive pleaded. “The people of Atlantis attained technological heights even we have yet to achieve. But something went wrong. The power of the great crystals you call Atragon was abused. Whether this was intentional or not is not definitely known. It was probably unintentional at first, the reserves overloaded which led to a tragedy. But then the potential of Atragon as a weapon was revealed. Factionalization resulted. Various parties in Atlantis struggled desperately for control of the crystals which alone could assure their unhindered rise to power. The fanatics got hold of them first. Fanatics got hold of the crystals and brought about the destruction of the entire society.”
“And sank the continent into the Atlantic, right?”
“It would not be beyond the power of the crystals. You’ve seen them. You know it as well as I do.”
“What I know has nothing to do with imaginary continents sinking into the ocean. And nothing to do with miraculous reappearances.”
“There was nothing miraculous about it, as I said. Seismic changes occurred. Atlantis, parts of it anyway, became accessible once more. The crystals emerged unhindered by the passage of time, prepared to cause destruction yet again.”
“Or prevent it in this case.” McCracken leaned over the table. “Those crystals, Professor, may be the only thing that can prevent a cataclysm just as bad and maybe worse than Atlantis sinking into the sea. They’ve already cost the life of a woman I loved, and unless I find them she’ll have died for nothing. So I really don’t care if they came from the black depths or some kid’s marble collection, I’ve got to find them and you’re the only one who can help me.”
“I’m not a fool, old boy,” Clive said softly as he poured the rest of his flask into his glass. “Listening to my ravings might lead you to believe I am, but the title of professor is real. I studied gems and their origins for years. My theories about Atlantis are based in fact.”
“The reserves of the crystal, Professor, where can I find them?”
Clive sipped his whiskey and then squeezed both hands around the rim. “I only know the general area: an island in the Bimini chain off the coast of Florida.”
“Which one?”
“None you’ve ever heard of.”
“You just said that—”
“I know what I said, but it isn’t quite that simple. There’s an island in the Biminis with no name. None of the natives ever talk about it, and tourists are steered cleverly away. There’s a graveyard of ships off its coast. Plenty of vacationers and treasure hunters have disappeared after venturing too close.”
“First Atlantis and now the Bermuda Triangle …”
“No, old boy, this time it’s a sea monster.”
“A what?” McCracken asked incredulously.
“The natives who talk at all call it Dragon Fish. Legend has it that the Dragon Fish protected the island’s shores from pirates centuries ago and apparently hasn’t lost its appetite yet. True or not, the legend’s done wonders at keeping all curious parties away.”
“And this unnamed island contains the Atragon?”
“More specifically, its coastal waters do. The crystals were discovered relatively recently in the wake of those seismic changes I mentioned. They were forced up from the ocean floor, them and some sort of structure housing them.”
“Where’s this island, Professor?”
“That I can’t tell you. Would if I knew, old chap, but the specific coordinates were never made known to me, nor did I especially care to learn them if the truth be known. It would take you days at the very least to find the island on your own. The Biminis stretch further out than you may think.”
“But somebody must have the precise coordinates. Maybe this Sadim you spoke of earlier.”
Clive nodded reluctantly. “Abib El Sadim, the most mysterious man in all of Morocco. Nobody knows much about him, and I know more than most. From what I can gather Sadim not only discovered the reserves of the crystal but was the only man brave enough to challenge the Dragon Fish in its home waters.”
“You don’t really believe there’s a sea monster, Professor, do you?”
“Don’t be confused by my bloody title, old boy. I had an open mind for these things long before the booze turned my brain to mush.”
“Let’s stick to reality,” Blaine told him. “Where can I find this Sadim?”
“You’ll never get close to him. No one does.”
“But there’s got to be a place, a means of contact.”
“Indeed. His bar in Casablanca: the Cafe American.”
McCracken stared across the booth in disbelief. “If the piano player’s name is Sam, I won’t be able to take any more of this.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Sadim has recreated the bar almost entirely from the classic film. It’s become one of Casablanca’s hottest spots, especially this week with all the festivals taking place. He has quite a sense of humor, I’m told.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“No, never. I’m sure you’ve learned that after discovering the potential of his find he sought to sell it to the highest bidder. I fielded offers for him from terrorists and cutthroats alike. Sadim wanted to remain out of the picture. I received bids and simply passed them on to him.”
“Were any ever accepted?”
“Not to my knowledge but, then, I would have no way of knowing what happened after I passed the bids along or how far along the process had gone before I came on the scene. Nor did I want to know.”
“Spoken like a man not exactly happy with his work.”
“I wasn’t a fool, old boy. I knew that the groups represented by men like Fass were bidding purely because of the crystal’s potential as a weapon. It made me realize how low I’d sunk. Didn’t care much about the cancer after that. I just stayed here and waited for Sadim to send someone out to kill me.”
“Which you thought was my role.”
Clive nodded. “Better this way, eh? You’ve given me my chance at redemption. Sadim’s the only man who knows exactly where the crystals can be found. You’ll know what to do with them. You’ll do what’s best. It’s the kind of man you are. It almost makes me hope I’ll live long enough to see the results.”
“I appreciate the support.”
“You’ll need a bloody hell of a lot more than that to succeed, old boy. Getting in to see Sadim in Casablanca isn’t going to be easy, convincing him to cooperate even less so.”
“In which case,” Blai
ne winked, “I’ll just have to round up the usual suspects.”
“Then you’d better know something else about the man you’re after,” Clive told him. “Sadim wasn’t always known as Sadim. He had another name for the better part of his life: Vasquez.”
Chapter 25
IT WAS TOO LATE to leave for Casablanca by the time he finished with Professor Clive, so McCracken submitted to his exhaustion and spent the night in Marrakesh. He overslept slightly Monday morning but was unbothered by it; he needed to be at his best if he planned to face Vasquez.
Blaine had been to Casablanca only once before in his career, and his impressions of the vast Moroccan city had been formed mostly by the classic Bogart film. Arriving at the airport after flying in from Marrakesh, he still half expected to see characters with resemblances to Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet, but he would be more than happy to settle at this point for sight of a different fat man.
To think that somehow Vasquez was behind all this. McCracken wasn’t surprised. There was plenty of money to be made from the crystals, a fortune, and money had always been the fat man’s first love. The problem at this point was how to gain access to him, and Blaine could cover that only after inspecting the layout of his headquarters.
The Cafe American was located in a quarter of the city reserved for hotels, shops, and exclusive clubs. Almost there, the taxi became snarled in traffic.
“The festivals,” the driver shrugged.
“I’ll walk from here,” Blaine told him, adding a generous tip to the amount tallied on the old-fashioned meter.
He climbed out and started down the street. Vasquez’s establishment was just three blocks away, but those blocks were jammed with people watching the festivities. The streets had been closed off to traffic and were now filled with various displays of Moroccan culture, from Arab acrobats to Berber horsemen riding with both hands on their long rifles, firing occasionally into the air in demonstration of their famed fantasia rituals.
From the outside the Cafe American was a perfect reproduction, right down to several exclusive canopied tables on the sidewalk. All that was missing were the Nazi spotlights combing the area with their crisscrossing beams. It was mid-afternoon, and Blaine had no problems in gaining entry.