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

He called Abdelhaq. A woman answered in Moroccan Arabic then in French. Abdelhaq was not home and Steve left a message: “Steve will be at the Hilton.” He hung up and cursed himself. Someone might have been listening. He wondered about the hotel receptionist. Steve took a deep breath.

     Think clearly, he told himself. You cannot afford even one mistake.

     He went back downstairs and asked for access to the safe, explaining apologetically that he wanted to place other personal documents in the care of the hotel. In the privacy of the small closet-like room provided for this purpose, he extracted all of his cash and passport from the manila envelope, replaced it with hotel stationary and a thick leaflet from the Moroccan Office of Tourism to give the envelope some weight, sealed it, and gave it back to the clerk.

     Steve went out through the ornate lobby. He looked across the street before making a right turn up the slight incline of Rue Chellah and noticed another BMW with three men inside. This car was dark blue. The one in the back was hard to see. They seemed to be looking at him. He made his way around the corner to find a taxi before the blue car made its way around the block. He tried to remember what his father had said about surveillance. Where was Abdelhaq? Whatever happened to his vaunted protective team?

     He went into a bookstore to plan his next move where he picked up a guidebook. He should not have left the hotel without a firm plan to get to the Hilton. He was deep in thought when someone whispered his name, making him jump. It was a smiling Abdelhaq who wordlessly guided him to the blue BMW waiting outside.

     They drove past the palace, and past the Zawa Theatre. Abdelhaq pointed out the small airport behind the Rabat Hilton where King Hassan II had always kept a plane and crew for a fast get-away in case of a coup. Abdelhaq’s house was in the Pinede section of Souissi, named for its evergreens.

     Abdelhaq pointed to an inscription by the front gate: VILLA LEILA.

     “That’s my wife’s name,” he said, smiling. “We bought the house just before I was assigned to Tehran.”

     They walked through a spacious marbled entrance and Abdelhaq led Steve to a wood-paneled living room that looked out on a rock garden. They sat on banquettes against the wall.

     Steve brought him up to date about the events on the road back to Rabat and asked, “What happened to the protection you promised?”

     “It’s been a full day for me too, Steve. We interrogated all the drivers and mechanics that had access to the ministry cars. All but one, that is. And we pretty much concluded that he was the one who placed the bomb in the car. Anyway we’re looking for him. He’ll lead us to the rest of his group. The bottom line, as you Americans like to say, is that the protective team assigned to you was led by Benjelloun, the Salafist penetration of our service.”

     Abdelhaq stood up.

     “How about some dinner?”

     He opened the sliding glass doors to the dining room. A maid, head covered and with fading hennaed designs on her hands and feet, soon came in with a tagine. The couscous was already on the table. The maid removed the onion-domed top of the earthenware dish to reveal steaming chunks of lamb mixed with prunes, sprinkled with sesame seeds and almonds.

     Abdelhaq poured from a bottle of Gris de Boulaouane, a Moroccan rosé with an alcoholic content that matched the strong tastes of the dish. The aromas of saffron and cinnamon caused Steve’s stomach to signal that it had been a long eventful day with little food. They both helped themselves directly with their fingers. Abdelhaq took the couscous with his fingers, rolling it into a ball, a feat that Steve didn’t even attempt.

     “Tell me about Benjelloun and his gang. Is he now under arrest?”

     “We’re still looking for them. I suggest that you stay here tonight. Now that we know who to look for, you should leave Morocco. Since you told us he was in Khemisett a couple of hours ago, my people are looking for him right now. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll get you on a plane out tomorrow. But it would help my investigation if the Salafists think you’re still here. Some might do something else to reveal themselves. You can leave as a Canadian tourist in your disguise and with a Canadian passport.”

     “That guy Benjelloun was part of the security team that I met with. He seemed very uncomfortable when I told them I knew I was under surveillance.”

     “Your antennae are obviously better than Benjelloun’s boss in security. He should have pegged Benjelloun as a problem. That cretin comes from a politically connected family, so he may have gotten into security through the back door. He’s a problem we will deal with,” Abdelhaq said, with a scowl.

     After the meal, Steve and Abdelhaq returned to the banquettes, low to the floor and with an abundance of backrest pillows. Steve was beginning to feel safe and relaxed for the first time all day.

     “I know you and my father met in Iran but I was too young to know you then. How did you meet? What were you two doing?”

     “If your father hasn’t told you himself, it’s probably not my role to talk about it. I only will tell you that I probably owe him my life. At a roadblock, he wrested a rifle. I remember it was a German Heckler and Koch G3 rifle—standard issue for the Iranian army at the time, from the hands of the leader of the thugs who wanted to take us prisoners. You can ask him for the details.”