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

“Don’t deviate from that route. There will be friendly eyes on you at key locations until the final checkpoint when you will see me.”

     Steve had not gone farther than the first hundred yards of his choreographed walk when he sensed rather than felt something in back of him. He instinctively put his hand on his wallet and closed his fingers around a small wrist. He turned to find a young boy at the other end of the wrist. The boy began yelling in Arabic, “American, American, money for my mother, in hôpital!”

     Steve retrieved his wallet and was about to focus on the little Moroccan thief, but his attention was diverted by a millisecond sighting of Curly, whom he had seen hovering around his car. Steve thought he had seen him behind a group of Japanese tourists—not a wise concealment choice for a full size Moroccan. But he had disappeared. Likewise, the boy had taken advantage of Steve’s distraction to make his get-away. Remembering Abdelhaq’s assurances, he was tempted to believe that Curly’s presence was a positive sign. However, he was getting confused.

     When Steve arrived at the end of the surveillance detection route he was relieved to see Youssef run his fingers through his hair. Youssef walked Steve quickly into the heart of the old quarter. As they went by the historic Karaouine mosque, Steve wondered if this was the smartest route. If Salafists or their sympathizers were around, they’d most likely use the mosque as their Fes headquarters. He put his head down and kept walking—it was too late to change routes and he had no choice but to trust Youssef.

     They walked down an alley flanked by windowless walls about three stories high and came to a nail-studded wooden door with a large iron lock and handle. The door opened instantly when Youssef tapped the palm of his hand against its surface. They stepped into a world out of A Thousand and One Nights, a lush garden, a riot of greens and yellows and pinks, surrounding a bubbling fountain. Several dark-skinned servants hurried about. Daud welcomed him and ushered him inside a room bordering on the garden.

     Daud was the perfect traditional Moroccan host. He placed loose tea, lumps of sugar, and sprigs of mint in a silver teapot. At his signal, a servant brought boiling water that Daud poured in the pot. After pleasant conversation concerning the history of Fes, Daud took the teapot and poured, first with the spout close to the glass and gradually extended his arm to produce a long stream of steaming tea between pot and glass, never spilling a drop. They each drank the traditional three cups.

     Then Daud introduced Steve to what he called his atelier, his workshop—an office-sized room with dozens of wall-mounted wooden drawers and cabinets, square work table on one side, running water and a waist-level counter on the other. Out of one cabinet, inside of which were smaller pull-out drawers, he selected several pairs of glasses. He tried several on Steve and finally selected a highly noticeable black-rimmed pair. He then looked at Steve hair and opened another cabinet inside of which were rows of wigs on wire wig-stands.

     “The idea is to make you look older and give the observer something to fix his attention away from your basic, unchangeable physionomie,” he explained, “your height and bone structure for example. We could change those also but not in a couple of hours as Mr. al Fassi wants, and not on such short notice.”

     He outfitted Steve with salt-and-pepper hair and a severely receding hairline. Steve looked in the mirror and saw himself aged fifteen-to-twenty years—an expert job, he thought. Daud took his picture with the disguise on for Steve’s new Canadian passport, then removed the disguise, explained to Steve how to put it on and slipped it into a small cloth bag. He went into an adjoining room for a half-hour and came back with the passport.

     “You are a Canadian tourist, Ian Ross. You came from Paris five days ago. You’re on your way to Dakar, Senegal. The passport has the French, Moroccan, and Senegalese stamps and visas that you need. You were born in Toronto. That will explain your accent when you speak French. I cannot help you with your Canadian past. You will have to create that yourself based on what you can convincingly talk about. You must memorize all this information. It has to come out instantaneously if needed.”

     “Abdelhaq is lucky to have you as his friend. How can I thank you?”

     Daud held up his left palm toward Steve and said, “Not your worry.”

     Steve thanked him again, shook his hand, and Youssef walked with him back to his car. Steve was now extremely aware of his physical environment but he didn’t spot Curly.

***

On his way back to Rabat, Steve noticed a black BMW 740 that stayed doggedly behind him. Whether he sped up or slowed down, the car stayed within sight. Since this tail didn’t seem to be hiding, Steve assumed it was the friendly, protective team sent by Abdelhaq, probably the same BMW he had seen in the parking lot when he arrived in Fes.

     On a straight stretch of road, the BMW sped up and was quickly behind him. There were no other cars on the road. The black car swerved to the left to pass. In his driver’s side mirror, Steve noticed that the black car’s windows on the right, on his side, were open—the hair of the man in the back was blowing around. His mind quickly processed the information and concluded that the face and hair belonged to Curly.

     He checked his mirror again and saw movement. A hand appeared from the front passenger side window, but it was not waving in friendly gesture. Steve caught sight of the barrel of a gun. Instinct powered by