Askari Harrak, and the other man, a cousin named Youssef Daoud, a muscled thirty-year-old, carried each woman from the boat to the enclosed truck, whose tailgate was open. A third man, Karim Serhane, the driver, stood in the back under a hanging light bulb and helped deposit the women on the torn padding spread across the truck bed.
When the last woman had been carried ashore, the captain started the engine and slowly pulled away from the jetty. He wanted nothing more to do with that night’s work. If anyone should ever ask, he and the mate would say it had been a disappointing trip, they hadn’t caught a thing.
Harrak and Daoud crowded into the truck’s cab, as Serhane got back behind the wheel. It had been a long night and it would be three more hours before they got to Marrakech. They were tired and hungry, and sat silent, too worn out for small talk.
Harrak, always a bitter, angry man, was in a particularly foul mood.
“Insh’Allah, they’ll pay for making us go through this,” he finally muttered.
“Who’s that?” asked Serhane.
“Those Swedish bastards. They messed up our business in Europe and now they’re fucking with us here. They’re waiting for the ship in Casablanca. Just look what we’ve had to do to hang on to women we paid good money for.”
Serhane didn’t think now was the best time to remind Harrak it had been his idea to disrupt their Swedish drug and women-trafficking operations in order to avenge Ahmed’s death.
“Screwing with us is going to cost them,” Harrak said as an idea began to take shape in his mind. “More than they’d ever expect.”
87
LEAVING CASABLANCA
Thursday, February 23, 8:15 a.m. The three Swedish officers and Girgis Akhrif sat in Barrada’s office waiting for him to appear. Akhrif had joined them for a quick breakfast at their hotel, but they were still hungry enough to sample the coffee and tray of honey-soaked pastries they’d found set out for them.
“Sorry, I was held up,” Barrada said as he came in, sat down with them, and poured a cup of coffee.
Ekman was bursting with impatience and was tempted to ask right away if there was any news about the women, but managed to restrain himself. He didn’t want to risk offending Barrada by being pushy.
After making polite inquiries about how they were enjoying their stay in Casablanca and whether they’d slept well, Barrada at last said, “I have some information for you.”
He paused, looking around at them. “We’ve found out what’s happened to the women. They’ve been taken to Marrakech.”
“Do you know where they are in Marrakech?” Rystrom inquired.
“Not yet, but we expect to have that information soon.”
“When you do, you’ll rescue them immediately, won’t you?” Granholm asked.
“We may have to wait a bit.”
“What will you be waiting for?” Ekman asked.
“We know that sometime in the next week the women are to be auctioned to a group of bidders from the Middle East. We want to arrest them, as well as the traffickers.”
“Think about what those poor women may be going through in that time,” said Granholm.
“I expect they’ll be well-treated before the auction.”
“Maybe physically, but psychologically they’ll be suffering terribly.”
Barrada shrugged. “We need to put a stop to foreigners who use our country as a source of sex slaves. Jailing these men will be a major step in that direction.”
“I think we can appreciate your reasons for wanting to arrest everyone involved, Commissaire,” said Ekman. He was uncertain how he would handle it, but he hoped he’d opt to rescue the women as soon as he knew where they were being held, and deal with the buyers later.
“What should we do now?”
“I imagine you’ll want to be there when we retrieve the women, so why don’t you plan on driving to Marrakech this afternoon.”
“When should we meet you?” asked Rystrom.
“It will take me a little more time to get the information we need and to organize. Why don’t you leave and I’ll follow in the next day or so? That way you’ll have a chance to look around Marrakech. It’s a fascinating city and I’ve already reserved hotel rooms for you. I know Girgis will be happy to take you,” he said turning to him.
“It will be my pleasure,” Akhrif said.
“All right,” Ekman said. “We’ll head there today.”
But he had no interest in playing the tourist. He just wanted this trip to be over so he could get back home.
As much as he wanted to return quickly though, Ekman realized that rescuing the women would only accomplish one of the tasks that had brought him to Morocco. He’d still have to get his hands on Karim Serhane.
88
ILINCA
Thursday, February 23, 12:40 p.m. She came awake gradually from her drugged sleep and slowly opened encrusted eyelids. Lifting her head too quickly from the pillow, she immediately became dizzy and fell back. Her eyes blinked against the glare of fluorescents fixed to the dirty white ceiling. It was the only light in the grey, concrete-walled room.
The air was humid despite the cooling flow from several overhead vents. Turning her head carefully to the right she could see part of the room.
There was a cot a few feet from hers, with another just beyond it. A sleeping woman in a stained sweat suit identical to hers lay on each. At the end of the room was a partially open door.
Moving her head to the left, she saw two more cots with sleeping women. At that end of the room was a heavy door with a small window.
A steel clothes rack, filled with garments she couldn’t make out, lined part of the cinder-block wall facing the beds. A wooden dressing table with a mirror and chair stood next to it against the wall.
Ilinca moved cautiously, trying again to sit up without becoming ill. She sat still for several minutes waiting for a lingering nausea to pass. She had an overwhelming need for water, but there was nothing to be seen nearby. Even before that she needed to relieve herself.
She tried sitting on the edge of the cot and waited a moment. Then she stood, her bare feet feeling the hard cement of the floor, steadying herself with one hand on the cot. When she felt she wouldn’t fall, she took a few tentative steps and then walked cautiously to the open door. Peering in she was glad to see a small bathroom.
She used the toilet and then went to the sink and turned the faucet. Cold water gushed out and she splashed some on her face, rubbing her eyes clean. Scooping some water in her hand she drank greedily, over and over again. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste lay on the sink and she used it. Afterward she felt a little more human.
Ilinca knew she had to be somewhere in Morocco. The ship’s captain had taken a fancy to one of the women and brought her to his cabin. She’d spent three days there before being returned to the large compartment holding the others.
“He told me they’re going to sell us in Morocco,” the woman, a pretty Hungarian brunette named Gizela had said in English, bursting into tears. “What can we do?”
“There’s nothing to do now, we have to wait. There may be a chance to escape later,” Ilinca had replied. “They might get careless and we’ll have an opportunity.”
She badly wanted to use the small shower now and change clothes, but first she had to find something to eat: she was famished.
As though in response to her thought, she heard the door at the other end of the room open and then close with a thud.
Coming out of the bathroom she saw that two small, elderly women in traditional ankle-length black robes had come in wheeling a cart that held covered dishes on top, and on a bottom shelf, bottles of water.
She went toward them and they stopped.
“Can you help us?” she asked in English.
Both women responded with gap-toothed smiles, and rapid Moroccan Arabic.
Ilinca saw it was hopeless trying to communicate with them; besides they obviously were working for their captors, whoeve
r they might be.
The women wheeled the cart to the dressing table and began putting paper plates and small plastic forks on it. Lifting the lids from several dishes they pointed first to her, then to the food. She didn’t need a second invitation, but grabbed a plate and began loading it with pita bread, couscous, and sliced chicken.
Taking the plate and a bottle of water to her cot she sat on its side and hungrily used the pita to scoop up the food. She stopped between mouthfuls, still extremely thirsty, and gulped down the entire bottle of water.
As she finished, she noticed that two of the other sleeping women had begun to stir.
The elderly servers had knocked on the door to be let out. A face in the door’s window looked them over and the door was opened.
A short time afterward, a man entered. She stood, as he looked around and then approached her.
“Feeling better?” Harrak asked in English.
“Yes,” she responded. “Thank you for the food.” Ilinca had decided that being pleasant would be more useful than showing how she really felt: she had a quick mental image of herself plunging a knife into his chest.
“You and the others will be my guests for a little while. I want you to relax, eat, get cleaned up, and try on new clothes,” he said, pointing to the garment rack filled with different sizes and colors of lingerie and thin robes.
“Soon the women will bring you toiletries so you can put on makeup.” He reached over and lifted her chin. “Although you’re pretty enough as it is.”
Ilinca flinched at his touch.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like me to touch you? Plenty of men have already done much more than that.”
“Only because I couldn’t stop them,” she said, defiant despite herself.
“I bet you liked it well enough, you little slut.”
“I hated it.”
“I think you fuck like a rabbit,” he said, wriggling his hips in an obscene pantomime. “You’re nothing but a filthy whore, aren’t you?”
Ilinca fell silent and lowered her head. This man could do what he wanted with her, she mustn’t antagonize him.
He smiled at her apparent submissiveness. “I’ll let you and the other whores get presentable so you’ll bring a better price. You’ll have a new owner very soon. Think about how much you’ll enjoy pleasing him,” he said. He walked toward the door where a face at the window watched him approach. It was opened for him, then closed with a clang as the bolt slid home.
89
MARRAKECH
Thursday, February 23, 7:30 p.m. When Akhrif had dropped them off at their hotel that afternoon, he’d apologized for not being able to be with them any longer. He’d be spending the night at a small hotel elsewhere, and would be returning early in the morning to Rabat and another Interpol assignment. Barrada would handle their transportation needs from now on.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for us,” said Ekman.
“It was my pleasure,” Akhrif said. “Can I have a selfie as a souvenir?”
“Of course,” said Ekman, thinking that young people are alike in every country these days. The three Swedes and Girgis got together and smiled for his cell phone’s camera.
“Thanks, and good luck finding the women,” Akhrif said, as he headed back to his car.
They all agreed that their rooms at the fashionably remodeled, 1923 La Mamounia, the grande dame of Moroccan hotels, were the most luxurious they’d ever stayed in.
“If this was good enough for Churchill, I guess it’s good enough for us,” Rystrom said with a laugh, as they sat in the traditionally decorated Churchill Bar before heading in to dinner. Granholm smiled back at him and placed her hand on his.
Ekman said nothing. He was uncomfortable with the VIP treatment they were receiving from Barrada and would rather they paid their own way at more modest establishments. But as Akhrif had told them when they first arrived in Morocco, they were guests of the country, and had to accept the hospitality or risk offending their hosts.
As they sipped their cocktails, Ekman was restless. There was nothing he could do right now, but found it impossible to relax knowing that the captive women were somewhere in the city and going through God knows what.
They’d decided that although they liked Moroccan food, tonight they’d try L’Italien, the hotel’s two-star Michelin-rated restaurant. Dinner more than lived up to expectations, and it was almost ten o’clock before they said good night.
That evening a call was made to Askari Harrak.
“The Swedes are here in Marrakech, staying at the La Mamounia,” his caller said. They spoke briefly and hung up.
Harrak was pleased. His tentative idea about how to pay these foreigners back in a way they’d never forget had become a definite plan. Soon he’d put it into action.
90
TOURIST TRAP
Friday, February 24, 8:40 a.m. It was already fourteen degrees Celsius on a brilliant, sun-filled day that promised to reach twenty-one by noon. They decided to have breakfast at the poolside restaurant that offered a sumptuous buffet, and sat down at one of the round, umbrella-shaded tables beside the shimmering, Olympic-size pool.
Looking at the long, heavily laden tables lined up nearby under colorful tents, Granholm said, “If we go on eating like this, I’ll have to let out all my clothes.”
“Nonsense,” said Rystrom, casting an admiring glance at her figure. “There’ll just be a little more of you to love,” and taking her hand, kissed her palm.
“I don’t know if Ingbritt would say the same about me,” Ekman said, looking down at his expanded waist, ill-concealed beneath a straining vest. Worried about his health, she’d been urging him for years to slim down.
“Why don’t we just enjoy ourselves for once,” said Rystrom. “We need some distraction. There’s nothing else to do, right now.”
“Yes,” Ekman said. “Until Barrada finds out exactly where the women are being held and gets here with his men, we might as well.” But he was a reluctant tourist. The need to rescue the women was always on his mind, making it impossible for him to relax.
It was close to ten o’clock by the time they’d finished breakfast. Going to the hotel’s reception area they asked the concierge what sights to see in Marrakech. He hesitated, then suggested they might want to hire a car and guide.
After looking at the others, who shook their heads, Ekman said, “No, thanks. It will be more fun to find our own way.”
“As you think best, sir,” the cosmopolitan, grey-haired man said, and handed each of them a small, colorful booklet with descriptions of attractions in several languages, and a street map in English showing the hotel’s location in red.
“If you change your mind, please call the hotel and we’ll send a car for you,” the concierge added, handing Ekman his card.
As they headed for the entrance, Rystrom said, “Now that’s service for you. We could learn something in Stockholm from them.”
After consulting the list of sights, they decided to first see the architecturally significant Ali Ben Youssef Madrasa, a sixteenth-century building, now a museum that had originally been a religious school founded in the fourteenth century.
From the map, it looked like it was almost three kilometers away, so they decided to take one of the cabs lined up in front of the hotel.
“Ali Ben Youssef Madrasa,” Ekman said. The driver nodded and headed away from the hotel down Avenue Hommane Al Fatouaki.
They didn’t notice the panel truck that pulled out of a nearby side street and kept several car lengths behind the taxi.
The traffic was light and in less than ten minutes the cab stopped in front of an imposing, ancient building. Ekman bought the three tickets to the museum, fifty dirhams each, which after a moment’s mental arithmetic, he converted to about forty-four Swedish krona apiece.
Inside they stood in silent admiration in a huge courtyard with a shallow, central pool. It was surrounded by colonnaded arabesque arches covered with intricate, br
ight tiled patterns.
“It’s all quite beautiful,” said Granholm, as they wandered from one ornate room to another.
“Well worth seeing,” said Rystrom, and Ekman nodded agreement.
After an hour, they decided to leave. Standing outside, they consulted the booklet again. They decided to forego the Almoravid Kouba El Ba’adiyin shrine, even though it stood just across the square.
“Whatever other historic sites we see, it’s going to be downhill after this one,” said Rystrom.
“You’re right,” said Granholm. “So let’s go shopping.”
Ekman agreed. He needed to buy presents for Ingbritt and Carla.
They walked to a nearby taxi stand and Rystrom told the driver, “Carre Eden,” naming a major shopping mall mentioned in the guidebook. He figured if he couldn’t see what he wanted, there would be other shops lining the nearby streets where he could find the special present for Valdis that he had in mind.
Serhane was driving the panel truck that followed their cab down crowded Avenue Mohammed V. Harrak and Daoud were crammed into the front seat beside him.
“This is a mistake,” said Serhane. “We should just forget about the Swedes.”
“Shut up, Karim,” said Harrak, “and don’t lose their taxi.”
“I still say it’s not worth the risk.”
“I decide what’s worth it, not you. If anyone messes with me, they have to pay the price,” Harrak said, glowering at Serhane, who lapsed into silence. “Besides, I have a plan. You’ll see.”
The cab stopped in front of the sprawling Carre Eden Shopping Centre, housed in an ultramodern five-story building on a wide boulevard, Rue Tariq Bnou Ziad.
Going into the busy, enclosed mall, they strolled among the crowd, some dressed in Moroccan robes and others in jeans and colorful tee shirts. They peered into store windows, many displaying the same brands they were familiar with in Sweden. Global commerce definitely had reached Morocco. This up-to-date mall, which could have been almost anywhere in the world, contrasted sharply with the medieval splendor of the ancient Madrasa.
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