The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

passageways and stingy streets without sidewalks. Here, Hussein noticed, the occasional European stood out, unlike in the more modern part of the city. On a broader street, they went past a theater playing an Egyptian movie. The women were all veiled. None dared to wear western garments, least of all red high-heels.

     “I sent an email to al Khalil about the American,” Hussein said. “No answer yet. But I know what he’ll say. Do it, with greatest impact. So start planning.”

     Hussein didn’t know Casablanca, but he knew the culture of the Arab world’s rabbit warrens, be they called casbahs or medinas. Each political party and labor union had its public fronts and its underground factions. The ruling families, many claiming to be descended from the Prophet, the Arab equivalent of Mayflower ancestry, had its alliances based on strategic marriages and grievances going back generations. Each group kept an eye on the others through paid informants, ambitious men aspiring to become members of the organization or family, and others seeking favors. Watching them all was the king’s security service. The pecuniary opportunities for clever informants, who frequently were able to sell their information to several paymasters, were abundant. But establishing and violating trusts, the essence of the game, was a high-risk enterprise. Those who did not grasp this ground-truth either disappeared or survived as maimed warnings.

     Hussein looked about him with the surface interest of a visitor but with the educated eyes of a master of the game. He assumed that their walk was not unobserved. He also assumed that Lahlou had a reason for taking him on this walk through the labyrinths of the old city. Hussein wondered if Lahlou was cleverer than he appeared, if perhaps in this warren, he, Hussein, was not the rabbit rather than the ferret.

     They reached a café whose owner welcomed Lahlou. Hussein assumed he was part of Lahlou’s network. Lahlou led the way inside and they sat at a small table in the back by the wall. The air was heavy with smoke. No women or tourists had ever crossed the threshold. The owner came over immediately with a pot of sweet mint tea and two glasses decorated in imitation gold leaf.

     “What is your source for your information on the American, besides Ribb I mean?” Hussein asked.

     Lahlou hesitated a second and replied, “Our informant knows a colonel at the American Embassy. He wants to retire in Morocco after he leaves the Air Force next year.”

     “What about the visiting American?”

     “Spaceck, that’s the colonel, said that the visitor really is a nobody and that he, Spaceck, could get them a better deal on anything they want.”

     “But is the visitor CIA?” Hussein insisted.

     “Oh, here is what my lawyer got from the Internet,” and he handed the photo and the article about Coogan and Steve to Hussein.

     “So, is this the same person?”

     “I don’t know yet. Ribb will show it to the driver and get back to me.”

     “Let me know as soon as possible,” Hussein said with a slight smile of anticipation.

     “All right, I’ll call you at the hotel. In any case, Spaceck said that the American’s business story doesn’t make sense, and that he is too young to have the job he claims to have.”

     Hussein smiled.

     This Spaceck character could be useful, he thought. But he also wondered if Spaceck wasn’t trying too hard. Perhaps his reasons went beyond money. Maybe Spaceck was the spy. Hussein had survived in an environment rife with duplicity, betrayals, and obscure motivations.

     That night, Lahlou called Hussein at his four-room hotel in the depths of the medina.

     “My brother, you were inspired by Allah. You were right.”

     Hussein answered, “Al hamdu‘llah. You know what to do.”

     Before al Khalil answered his first message, Hussein sent him a second one.

     “The merchandise is genuine. I will consummate the transaction, which will terminate the Berlin-Paris activity. There is only one God, only one Quran.”

     As an afterthought, he added, “May Allah bless this enterprise.”

10. Rabat: Tour Hassan Hotel

In his room, Steve checked his email. He and his father, Marshall, used a still-experimental encryption system developed by the Los Alamos National Laboratory to secure their email communications. Based on his CIA experience, Marshall had said don’t write anything that would get sources killed, cause catastrophic consequences, or embarrass you or your employer if it appeared in The New York Times. He had long ago concluded his father and the CIA had too many rules.

     Marshall’s last message to Steve said, “Just a reminder to get in touch with my friend Abdelhaq in Morocco. He hasn’t seen you since Iran in 1978 or ’79. You’ll enjoy his hospitality, as well as the best Moroccan meal in the country.”

     When preparing for his trip from Virginia, Steve had not done enough to set up his schedule in Rabat. But other than the car sent to pick him up at the airport by the Ministry of Defense, the few appointments he had made seemed to have been written in disappearing ink. He spent a day showing up for appointments in Rabat only to be told by smiling secretaries that either her boss was busy or out of town, or that the very important person for whom she worked would deign to see him very soon, Inshallah—if God willed. “Very soon” invariably turned into a wait of hours, and Steve was muttering to himself, “Welcome to the Third World.”

     He had PowerPoint presentations on the three main topics that he hoped would interest the Moroccans. First, he’d present the accumulated experiences and lessons learned of the U.S. Army special ops warriors. What they had to say about Iraq and Afghanistan should be of interest to the Forces Armées Royales, the FAR, which was still fighting the Polisario in