“After this case is over, we’ll both have a good visit with them. And then you and I are going to take a long vacation together, just the two of us. I’ve got weeks of leave coming to me.”
“We’re not heading back to Morocco?” Ingbritt said, laughing.
“No, not there. In my mind it’ll always be too involved with this case. I’m thinking of a place that’s completely relaxing, somewhere in the Caribbean, like Barbados. There’ll be plenty of warm sun, and we’ll just lie on the beach under a palm tree, listen to the surf, and sip piña coladas.”
“It sounds idyllic, but don’t get my hopes up. Something always seems to happen at your work that prevents us from doing things like that.”
“I know. But this time I mean it. Just as soon as this case is finished, we’re going to do it. That’s a promise.”
“This time, Walther Ekman, I’ll hold you to it,” she said, and kissed him hard on the lips. “Just come home safely.”
Whenever he travelled, Ekman knew that Ingbritt’s pervasive anxiety level soared and that she’d worry constantly until he was home again.
82
ARRIVAL
Tuesday, February 21, 8:15 p.m. As the three Swedish police officers, carrying heavy coats, wheeled their luggage out of the Casablanca airport’s immigration and customs area, they saw a man standing just outside the exit holding a large cardboard sign that read, GRANHOLM.
“That’s got to be my Interpol contact,” Granholm said, as she led the way over to him.
“Hello,” she said in English, smiling at him, “I’m Valdis Granholm, and you must be Girgis Akhrif. Thanks for coming down from Rabat. It’s good to finally meet the voice at the other end of the line.” The short, thirtyish man, dressed in a light, beige jacket and open-collared shirt, smiled.
“It’s good to see you too, Valdis,” he said, in English with a mixed Moroccan-French accent.
She turned, and introduced Ekman and Rystrom to him.
“Glad to meet you,” Akhrif said, shaking hands with them. “My car is just outside and I’ll take you to your hotel.”
“I’m sure Valdis told you about the ship we need to meet” Ekman said. “We don’t know when it will dock, but we have to be waiting for it. So although we’d like to get to the hotel and relax, it might be better if we checked in at police headquarters to help organize the reception.”
“That’s not a problem,” Akhrif said, with a wide smile. “It’s all been taken care of.”
“We think the five women we’ll be taking off that ship might require medical attention, so several ambulances may be needed,” said Granholm.
“It’s already been arranged. We’ve tried to think of everything, insh’Allah, even though this is only Morocco and not Sweden.”
“I’m sorry, Girgis,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be offensive.”
“It’s all right. Now I’ll drive you to your hotel.”
Outside the large international terminal, indistinguishable from any other, it was twelve degrees Celsius and tall, straight palm trees lined the exterior. The three Swedes smiled and took deep breaths of the warm air.
It was a sixteen-mile drive, mostly on the busy A7 highway, to Morocco’s largest city of over four million. As he drove carefully through heavy traffic, Akhrif chatted with them about how different the climate and scenery were from Sweden.
Forty-five minutes later, he pulled up at a huge hotel complex, the five-star Four Seasons on the corniche waterfront.
Looking around, Granholm said, “This is much grander than we’re accustomed to, Girgis. I’m afraid it’s going to break our budget.”
He grinned again. “Like everything else, it’s all been taken care of.”
She began to protest, but he raised a hand, “Please, you are our guests as long as you are in our country. It’s our custom,” he said. “And you have to become used to it, or we really will be offended.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I guess we’ll just have to accept it.”
As porters hurried over to unload the luggage, Akhrif told them about the plans that had been made. Police would be waiting at the ship’s berth when it docked late tomorrow morning. First thing tomorrow they’d go see Hamza Barrada, the divisional commissaire from national headquarters in Rabat, who was in charge of the operation.
“I know he’s looking forward to meeting you,” Akhrif said.
They shook hands, and then followed the porters into the ultramodern lobby. They’d eaten on the plane, and weren’t hungry, just tired. They agreed to meet for breakfast at six thirty.
The next morning, seated in Mint, the Moroccan-themed restaurant in the hotel’s lobby, Ekman asked Rystrom and Granholm how they liked their rooms, and then, realizing he shouldn’t have asked, turned red with embarrassment.
“It’s okay, Walther,” Rystrom said with a grin. “We’ve known for a long time that you realized we’re together.”
“It’s impossible to conceal anything from you two,” said Ekman, recovering with a laugh.
“I only asked because they gave me an oceanfront suite and I wondered whether your rooms were the same.”
“No, but they’re very nice ones with ocean views,” said Granholm.
“I guess rank has its privileges,” Rystrom said, shaking his head in mock envy.
They each ordered french pastries, fresh orange juice, and coffee, leaving the heavier Moroccan specialties for a later meal. Over breakfast, they talked about how the case’s convoluted path had led them there, far from Sweden.
“This is something of a silver lining,” said Granholm, as she looked around at their luxurious surroundings.
“Yes, for us,” said Ekman, “but it’s the bright lining of a very dark cloud.”
83
BARRADA
Wednesday, February 22, 7:30 a.m. It was already a brilliant, sunny day with a temperature in the midteens, as the car headed into the city center along roads crowded with morning traffic.
“We’ll be meeting Commissaire Barrada at the Waliya, the regional governor’s office,” Akhrif said, “instead of the local police station.”
Ekman wondered why. Probably it was because Barrada was from national headquarters.
They drove into the wide Mohammed V Plaza and pulled up in front of what was an obviously historic tan stucco building with a tall, imposing tower.
Akhrif showed his identification and spoke briefly with one of the guards out front about leaving the car where it was. Then he gestured to the others to follow him.
In the cool, dim interior, he led the way up a broad central staircase and down a tiled corridor to a large wooden door.
Knocking first, he entered, and they followed him into a huge, ornately plastered, high-ceilinged room with tall windows looking out on the plaza, its floor covered with bright Berber rugs.
Divisional Commissaire Hamza Barrada appeared to be in his midfifties. He was a powerfully built man, almost as big as Ekman, dressed in a dark business suit that seemed barely able to contain him.
He came around the wide, elaborately carved desk.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Chief Superintendent,” he said in perfect Oxford English, without the trace of an accent. He’d obviously been briefed on his guests and what they looked like.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Commissaire,” Ekman said. “Let me introduce my colleagues, Superintendents Valdis Granholm and Garth Rystrom of our National CID.”
“Please,” Barrada said, gesturing to armchairs around a low table set with a coffee service, rather than traditional Moroccan mint tea.
As they sipped their thick, too sweet Turkish-style coffee, Barrada explained what was happening at the port.
“My officers have been there since last night, waiting for the ship you’re interested in. The port captain has now told us it’s expected to dock around ten o’clock this morning. Customs officers will board immediately and the ship will be searched. Then the crew will be arrested by my men and t
he women you’re looking for will be taken off, placed in ambulances, and driven to the new Sheikh Khalifa Hospital, where you can interview them.”
“We’d like to be there when the ship docks,” said Ekman.
“Certainly, that won’t be a problem, but you understand you’ll only be observers. I’m sure you can appreciate that all interactions with the crew, and the transfer of the women, have to be handled by us.”
“That’s understood,” said Ekman. “It would be done that way in our country.”
“Excellent, then we’re on the same track. Human trafficking is not tolerated in Morocco. We’re delighted to see this ring broken up here and in Sweden.”
Ekman thought he was being disingenuous. Joumari had been active for a long time in Morocco and the police had to have known about his operation, but hadn’t done anything to stop it. The question was, why?
“Girgis has told me you have another objective besides rescuing these women: you’re looking for a man named Karim Serhane you believe has fled to our country, probably to Marrakech.”
“That’s right,” said Granholm. “Do you have a file on him?”
“His name is known to us. He’s been working for Joumari.”
“We suspect he may have committed multiple murders in Sweden,” said Rystrom. “Does he have that kind of record, or reputation, here?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Ekman had been listening carefully to Barrada’s replies. They seemed vague and cautious to him.
“Besides assisting police from other countries, which we very much appreciate, Commissaire, could you tell us a little about your other areas of responsibility?” Ekman asked.
He wanted Barrada to become more relaxed and expansive with them. He’d found this happened most easily when people had a chance to speak about themselves and their work.
“I’m the odd jobs man around here. Special assignments of all kinds, that sort of thing. I don’t want to bore you with the details,” he said, standing and looking at his watch.
Now he’s being openly evasive, thought Ekman.
“I think it’s about time for us to head to the port,” Barrada said. “We need to be there in case the ship comes in early.”
84
MISSING
Wednesday, February 22, 9:35 a.m. Barrada’s car led the way to the docks, with his Swedish visitors following in Akhrif’s auto. Behind them was a police bus with more officers.
Casablanca, in addition to being Morocco’s biggest city, is also its major port. Their convoy moved slowly through the dense warehouse district surrounding the port. They threaded their way cautiously among a logjam of lumbering tractor trailers, loaded with steel cargo containers. As they got nearer, Ekman and the others could see enormous cranes towering over the large container freighters that lined the rows of docks.
Ten minutes later they were at the far end of the port and came to a berth that had been reserved for the Kharon. Several cars, some filled with customs officers and others with police, were parked nearby. Barrada’s car pulled up close to these vehicles, and Akhrif did the same.
Barrada got out and went over to a car in front, speaking through the rolled-down window to an officer Ekman assumed must be in charge.
Akhrif and the Swedes had also gotten out of their car and Barrada now came over to them.
“We got here just in time,” he said. “I’ve been told the ship will be arriving shortly, and as a matter of fact, we may be able to see it already,” he said, pointing to a distant black dot on the blue line of the horizon.
The five of them stood watching silently as the dot gradually grew larger and became a ship.
The rusted freighter slowly turned and carefully backed into its berth. A few crew members could be seen gazing down over the rails at them.
The engine shuddered to a halt and after a few minutes, a gangplank was lowered onto the dock. Immediately a group of customs officers hurried up it and boarded.
Ekman and the others stood on the dock beside the ship, waiting impatiently for the officers to reappear with the women.
After twenty minutes, Ekman turned to Barrada and said, “The ship’s not that big. I wonder what’s keeping them.”
“They’ve been told to be thorough, and I imagine that’s what they’re doing.”
The customs officer in charge came down the gangplank alone. He went over to Barrada, saluted, and spoke to him in Moroccan Arabic. Barrada asked abrupt questions to which he got rapid responses, then the officer saluted again and reboarded the freighter.
Ekman and the other Swedes had stood listening to this unintelligible exchange with growing impatience.
Barrada turned to them and said, “I’m sorry to tell you that it appears there are no women on board.”
“How can that be?” asked Granholm.
“Yet we know they were put on that ship,” said Rystrom, pointing to the freighter. “They can’t have just vanished.”
“They haven’t,” said Ekman, “They must have been taken off somewhere between Stockholm and Casablanca.”
“So it would seem,” said Barrada. His voice told them he wasn’t overly concerned.
The customs officers had left the ship and Barrada’s police had boarded in force. They now reappeared leading the crew down the gangway in handcuffs.
They watched as a man wearing a jacket with captain’s stripes on his sleeves was led away, protesting in a loud voice until one of the officers slapped him in the face and then smacked him so hard on the back of his head that he staggered and almost fell.
Barrada observed this without changing expression and without comment, while his visitors stood there shocked. This wasn’t the way people arrested in Sweden were treated.
“Why don’t we go back to my office, and plan the next steps? Besides, I’m sure we could all do with some refreshments after this unfortunate disappointment,” Barrada said blandly.
85
LUNCH WITH BARRADA
Wednesday, February 22, 1:15 p.m. Lunch at Barrada’s office turned out to be an elaborate affair. A circular folding table had been placed in the middle of the room, covered with a white tablecloth, and set with heavy linen napkins, silverware, and glasses. Five dining chairs had been placed around the table.
Three white-coated servers moved about, setting out hot and cold salads, and filling glasses with mint tea. It was going to be a typical Moroccan meal.
When they’d arrived back at Barrada’s office, Ekman and his friends had wanted to speak with Barrada immediately about their next steps, but he’d insisted they should first have lunch and hold off any discussion until afterward.
His visitors had tried to make small talk with him as one dish after another was served, but it was hopeless; they were too preoccupied with what had happened. Conversation faded as they lapsed into silence and concentrated on their food.
The variety of appetizers seemed endless, but eventually they reached the main course: chicken with preserved lemons and green olives. It was followed by a fig and sesame tart dessert.
After the table had been cleared and removed, Barrada and his visitors gathered in the comfortable seating area.
“Well,” said Barrada, “how did you like lunch?”
“Everything was delicious,” said Granholm, and the others seconded this.
“Thank you for going to all that trouble,” said Ekman.
“No trouble at all. It was my great pleasure.”
“As you could no doubt tell during lunch, we can’t get the situation of the disappearing women out of our minds,” Ekman said.
“We have to find them,” said Rystrom. “The cases against the rapists need their testimony.”
“I understand,” Barrada replied, as his phone rang. Going over to his desk, he picked it up, said “Barrada,” and listened for a moment. Then he smiled and put the phone down.
Resuming his seat, he said, “The mystery has been solved. I’ve just been informed that the ship’s captain has co
nfessed everything.”
Ekman wondered what methods might have been used to extract such a quick confession.
“He got a phone call from the freighter’s owner,” Barrada continued, “directing him to anchor outside the harbor last night. He put the women, who were drugged, into a fishing boat that had come out to meet the ship.”
“How did they know we were waiting?” asked Granholm.
Barrada shrugged. “Who can say?”
“It may have been the call Alenius made to the port captain’s office to find out if the ship had arrived,” said Ekman.
“Someone there must have tipped off the traffickers that we were looking for the ship,” Rystrom said.
“That’s probably it,” said Ekman.
Turning to Barrada, Rystrom asked, “Can you discover who the leak is in that office?”
“Yes, but I don’t think that’s our primary concern now.”
“You’re right,” said Ekman. “We need to find out where they’ve taken the women.”
“Exactly,” Barrada said. “Let me work on it today. I may have some news for you tomorrow morning.”
“You have informants?” asked Ekman.
“Always,” Barrada replied with a predatory grin.
86
TRANSFER
Wednesday, February 22, 6:30 a.m. In the predawn darkness, the fishing boat headed across the sheltered bay, with only its running lights on. The captain, a grizzled man of sixty, kept his eyes fixed on where he knew the shore would soon appear and spoke clipped directions to his brawny mate.
They both ignored the two other men and the cargo that they carried. They’d been well paid to do exactly that.
In the cramped cabin below, five barefooted women dressed in soiled sweat suits lay in a drugged sleep, sprawled on piles of burlap sacks that stank of fish.
The shoreline loomed out of the dark marked by a few scattered lights. The captain sighted the jetty he’d been looking for and pointed the boat’s prow toward it. He slowed the engine to a crawl as they carefully pulled alongside the dock. It was suddenly bathed in the headlights of the large truck that had been parked there waiting for them.
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