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

know his father, you may trust his son.’ I know you will do the right thing in a crisis. The minister knows about the threats against you. Go to your meetings. You’ll be protected. And don’t worry—you won’t lose your contract.”

     “And?” Steve said. Despite Abdelhaq’s reassurances, he felt unsure.

     “First thing in the morning, I want you to go see a friend of mine, a photographer, in Fes. He’ll fit you with a disguise and an alias, including a passport that will allow you to leave the country ‘black;’ that is, in a way that will hide the fact that you’ve left. We don’t want to drag this out too long. Marshall would not allow it,” he smiled. “If we don’t catch them soon, you can still leave the country in a few days. I assume the Salafists have their sources and will know as soon as you go through airport controls if you go under your true name. Their searching will make them more visible to me.”

***

Steve was off to Fes in a rental car the next morning. He frequently glanced into the rearview mirror but could see no car behind him. On one hand, if there was a friendly tail on him, he was happy they were so invisible, so professional. But, was there really a friendly team keeping an eye on him?

     Once in Fes, he parked near the Palais Jamai and headed for the photographer’s shop. He was thirty seconds away from the car when he abruptly turned around—he had forgotten to lock the car. When he reached it, a man in his mid-twenties wearing a black, long sleeve Nike sports shirt, sun glasses and with long curly black hair was peering inside. He turned away as soon as Steve came into view. Steve watched him get into the back of a black BMW. Steve concluded the car must have just reached the large parking lot; its engine was running and he could see two people in the front. Steve almost gave a friendly wave to the occupants of the car but restrained himself—it might not be professional to wave to your guardian angels.

     He directed his steps toward the city’s medina in search of Daud, Abdelhaq’s friend, and his shop. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine. Cascading bougainvilleas lit up the whitewashed walls with brilliant shades of crimson, orange, yellow, and purple.

     The alleys of the medina were crowded with merchants and tourists. Young children wove in and out on their way to the bakeries balancing wooden boards on which rested round loaves of unbaked bread. A donkey carrying cases of Coca-Cola in wicker baskets strapped to his sides rocked and rolled down the alley forcing Steve to step into a shop that sold brass and copper trays. Since the donkey effectively blocked traffic, Steve had time to look at an artisan etching geometric designs on a tray with a hammer and a center punch. He resumed his walk steering clear of the leather tanning area because of its smell of urine and noxious chemicals. But he did like the smell of finished leather in an alley specializing in belts, saddles and babouche slippers.

     Steve walked into the photographer’s shop where a young man in western slacks and long sleeve shirt approached him. He asked for Daud, the owner. With a knowing smile, the salesman went to the back of the store and disappeared behind a dark curtain. Daud came out quickly. His gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses gave him the air of a professor.

     In a low conspiratorial voice that made Steve feel more nervous than secure, he said, “We cannot meet here. Maybe someone has followed you.”

     Looking toward the front of the shop carefully, Daud guided Steve beyond the curtain with great respect. Steve followed him into a long and narrow room, past boxes and files that overflowed the narrow shelves. Daud managed to squeeze in between the wall and a large wooden desk. He sat behind it and invited Steve to take a plastic chair in front. Steve noticed “HMS Invincible” inscribed on the front of the desk.

     Peering from behind a twenty-four-inch, cutting edge, flat-screen iMac computer, Daud spoke in French.

     “Yes, the desk comes from a sunken British ship. My father, may Allah keep him, bought it in Tangiers many years ago. His Excellency, Mr. al Fassi, has of course told me you would come. We need to go to my house where I will outfit you with all you need. To avoid bringing troublemakers with you, you will follow my directions exactly. There is one long street with nothing but brass plates, lamps, and decorations of all kinds. Do you know where it is?”

    “Yes, I was just there,” Steve said, remembering the Coca-Cola donkey.

     At that moment, the young man from the front of the shop joined them and stood by the curtain keeping an eye on the shop.

    “Start from the east and walk west. My son Youssef,” he pointed to him, “will be at the far end of that alley. If Youssef detects no surveillance behind you, he will run his hand through his hair. That means you’re okay, no one is behind you, and he will lead you to my house.”

     Youssef stepped closer to Steve and said, in good American-accented English, “If I do not signal, that means you are being followed. You should then enter the last brass shop on the left side of the alley, and quickly walk to a door in the back before any surveillants draw abreast of the shop. The door will lock when you close it behind you. A guide will be there to take you to my father’s house.”

     Daud gave Steve precise instructions on how to get to the alley. He said it would take him about twenty minutes.

     Youssef added,