The Caliphate by André Gallo (books to read for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

     The BMW shot past him. He heard the popping of the shots. Most of the bullets flew over his car, except for one that scored a long gash across the hood. As the shots punched past him, he pulled the hand brake and whipped the steering wheel to the left triggering his car to skid into a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, even as it continued down the road.

     He kept his hand on the brake, ready to release it when the car went off the road onto the dirt and grass strip punctuated by poplars every fifty yards. He regained control, released the brake, drove the car back on the asphalt and accelerated toward Fes at full throttle.

     Steve knew that heading in the opposite direction was the only way to put more space between him and the BMW. Without a weapon, surprise had given him perhaps a minute advantage. He was around the first turn and the black car had disappeared from sight. He had a good head start.

     He saw a sign, KHEMISETT 3 KILOMETRES, and reaching Khemisett before the BMW became the most important goal in his life. He urged more speed from his car. There was no one else on the road except for the occasional jellaba-clad peasant walking alongside with his donkey carrying farm produce. He stayed in the middle of the narrow road and took the turns as fast as he could. The BMW had more horsepower and soon appeared in his mirror. But he reached Khemisett with about a quarter-mile lead.

     He hit the brakes and turned onto a side street, passed a restaurant-hotel sign, and furiously jammed the car into the parking lot in back. He grabbed the keys and the bag with his disguise and went into the building through the back door. He entered the kitchen where he saw only one person, the cook. He put his hand on his heart, smiled and said “labess-alik,” a Moroccan greeting he had picked up, and kept moving. The cook barely paid attention to him. Steve went through the only other door and saw the letters WC on a green door on the left.

     He hadn’t anticipated he’d ever have to use his disguise, but now he was glad to have it. In a few minutes, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline came out of the bathroom, walked through the dining room and out the front door. Steve reasoned that, with his car in the back, this restaurant would soon be the object of the search.

     With his eyes out for his pursuers, he walked down the street and soon found a taxi with the driver asleep in the front seat. The driver demanded an absurd sum to drive him to Rabat. Steve, not in the mood to bargain, got in the back seat of the yellow Simca and cut the sum in half.

     He told the driver, “I’ll give you the entire amount if you can break the world’s speed record on the way to the Tour Hassan Hotel in Rabat.”

     Only a few minutes later, Steve knew he had made a mistake. The driver had already used two of their lives passing trucks around blind curves.

     But the Simca was no match for the BMW. Fifteen minutes later, the black car appeared. The hit team drew abreast of the Simca and two faces peered out of the open windows, hands held out of sight. Steve knew what they would see: a sleeping passenger in black-rimmed glasses, the back of whose graying head was leaning against the far window. The BMW dropped back. Steve glanced at the side view mirror and saw the BMW pull off the road, turn around, and head back toward Khemisett to conduct a more thorough search. He breathed a sigh of relief, though his body was still wired with adrenaline.

***

As he neared the Tour Hassan, Steve wondered about the wisdom of returning to his hotel. Had the guys in the black BMW called ahead? Would he have a bad surprise waiting in his room? What did he have there that he couldn’t live without? He had left most of his cash and American passport in an envelope in the hotel safe, for one thing. But he had his credit card and alias passport with him. He decided to go in, retrieve his stuff, and check out that evening. He didn’t think this group was seeking martyrdom. If and when they tried again, there would be an escape route in their plan, which probably meant no attack in a public place.

     In order to gain entrance to the hotel without being challenged at the reception, he had put Daud’s disguise back in its cloth bag and out of sight by the time he walked through the lobby.

     He tried to record everything he could see without obviously moving his head. A thousand thoughts and possibilities were going through his mind. Everything and everyone was suspicious. What about the guy in the white jellaba just sitting in the lobby not even pretending to read a newspaper like they did in the movies? On an impulse, he went to the reception desk and told the clerk that he would like to stay a week beyond his original reservation. Steve thought that would allow his adversaries to think they had plenty of time to plan their operation. He didn’t want them to do anything hasty. With an officious smile, the clerk said that would be no problem and he made a notation.

     He went up to his room, gathered some essentials in a small bag, and left his suitcases, most of his clothes, and his toilet articles. He would go to another hotel—that should buy him more time. He knew there was a Rabat Hilton. There would undoubtedly be shops there where he could get what he needed.