Arriving for a morning meeting with his Moroccan contact, Amir Yasin parked his motorcycle three blocks away from the Casablanca medina and walked toward the Marrakech gate. The clock tower indicated that he was twenty minutes early, which gave him time to surveil the area for enemies. Points of human contact were the most dangerous part of his work. Amir preferred to learn the name of a target anonymously and be left to his own devices, such as a sniper rifle, garrote, or a stiletto. Even his bare hands, if that was what it took to get the job done.
Casablanca’s Old Medina wore the architecture of all who’d walked its narrow streets—the French, the Moors, the Portuguese—with little of it remaining in good repair. Amir kept to the side streets, not wanting to venture near the main souk. But even here, street vendors sold their wares from carts. One man sold lamb’s feet from a stringer. A haggard old woman offered bolts of silk. Two young men peddled olives in a rainbow of colors. While everywhere, the stench of fish clung to the air like a vapor.
As he walked the streets, he wore mirrored sunglasses, which avoided the chance of direct eye contact. Even the voluptuous woman ladling grains into paper bags would not slow his stride. Another day, absolutely. But he kept those two sides of his life in different compartments out of necessity. Engagements with women were unpredictable under the best of circumstances. In his line of work, there were few he fully trusted.
Karima.
A soft, fleshy woman scented with jasmine and juniper awaited him that night in Rabat. He certainly trusted her with his body. Once he finished the day’s work, he planned to spend his remaining time in her bed. Educated in Europe, her charms were not entirely Middle Eastern, which suited them both. But her sentiments were entirely Moroccan, and he didn’t dare arrive empty-handed. Depending on the needs of his contact, Amir hoped to reach the souk in Rabat before the day faded to find a gift for Karima. It was a miniscule price to pay. An hour with Karima revived his most weakened spirit. Anything longer than twenty-four hours might kill him.
She was a married woman, but he preferred married women. They needed him less, and it made leaving them so much easier. Whatever her arrangement with her husband, she was able to meet Amir routinely, and they never discussed the matter when they were together. Maybe the husband knew. Maybe he didn’t. Either way, Amir’s time with her was intoxicating.
Without wearing a woolen djellaba that typified Moroccan dress, in this part of the world, Amir still mingled amid the locals like a lamb in a field of cotton. Few would see him as an outsider even if he had need to converse. But Amir did not plan to speak with anyone if he could avoid it. Merchants were more concerned about extracting dirhams from the passersby than with conversation. While not as popular as Marrakesh or Rabat for tourists, Casablanca still attracted sojourners to the coastal town, and vendors concentrated their efforts on those willing to part with their cash.
Amir checked the time on his phone. His meeting was to be held several streets away from his present location. He walked in a spiral toward the site, watching for faces that might cause him concern. When he was confident his contact brought no one else to the meeting, Amir located the address he’d memorized for the occasion.
The three-story building was typical for this area, a dirty white plaster affair with wrought iron bars on the windows, thick arched doors, and mosaic tiles inlaid during better days. Overhead, small balconies jutted toward the apartments on either side of the street. Amir found the stairwell and climbed to the second floor.
On the landing, two boys played with marbles. Amir stepped around them and walked to the third door on the right. He rapped twice.
The door opened far enough for Amir to see one large eye. It was brown and protruded from the socket. The eye was several inches below his own. “Who knocks at my door?”
It was the greeting Amir expected to hear. He answered with the planned response, “Your cousin from Taza.”
He’d met Nizar Sekkat on other occasions. While the address always changed, the routine never did.
The door opened to reveal a short, pudgy men with stringy black hair that he swept to one side. Some fat men were comical, but Sekkat had a serious demeanor and dangerous friends that Amir decided to respect. Plus the man would pay him 20,000 dirham for a day’s work. That alone earned Amir’s respect. He stepped inside, and Sekkat closed the door behind them.
“I have a bill for you to collect.” The round men wasted no time before conducting business.
He walked through the small kitchen and into the living room. There was a large envelope on a low table, and he handed it to Amir. “The man is named Mourad Boulami.”
Amir removed two photos from the envelope. Mourad Boulami was shown in a close-up shot and in his booth at the souk, a tall, lanky man who apparently sold leather and woven goods to tourists. Amir studied the man’s face and doubted he would appear so relaxed when they met in person. Amir memorized the address written on one of the photos.
“Is there anything I should know about him?” He handed the photo back to Sekkat.
“He owes my client 100,000 dirham. If he can pay you what he owes me, then only break his legs. If he cannot, well, use your imagination.”
Nizar Sekkat worked for shadowy figures in the Moroccan underworld who hired him to enforce their version of the law. Amir hated this kind of work. Killing a man was one thing, but maiming him was foolish, unnecessary, wasteful. It was time for Amir to find more agreeable jobs, and his fee today would carry him until he secured such work.
Sekkat pulled a smaller envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Amir. Payment. Always upfront. Always in full. Amir understood the consequences if he failed Sekkat.
Amir didn’t count the money in the envelope but simply tucked it into his own back pocket. “If he pays, I will contact you the usual way.” The email account they used for this purpose contained only email drafts until they were read by the other party, and then they were deleted.
“I don’t expect him to pay. After he is dead, my client will collect what he owes from the relatives.”
Amir nodded. “My regrets, but I will not be around to help you after today.”
“A pity.” Sekkat didn’t ask where he was going, and Amir wouldn’t have told him if he had.
Last week, the Americans approached Amir, but with a client tied to a government, it was wise to choose alliances carefully. Crossing certain lines was dangerous even if Amir’s loyalties were negotiable. But when he finished this job for the Moroccan, Amir would be able to take on the new business.
The promise of US dollars wasn’t in itself a draw, nor was working to further their political goals. His own politics were non-existent. Preserving his skin was all that mattered, and no one in any government had ever shared his view. As for religion, it was part of his educational history and bore no relevance to his daily life. His only continuing interests were to keep his bank account from running low and his sheets from growing cold. For now, Uncle Sam was by far the highest bidder, and for tonight, he had Karima. After that, Amir was free to wrap himself in the star-spangled flag of his choice.
Sekkat clutched Amir’s hands and said, “Then may your journey be peaceful.”
With their business concluded, Amir walked to the door and left Sekkat alone in his rooms.
Back in the street, he headed for Mourad Boulami’s stall.
There might be better times of the day to execute this kind of contract, but Amir was anxious to get on the road to Rabat, where a luscious Karima awaited him. He brought her chocolates from Europe the last night they were together, but all of his foreign supplies were depleted. As he walked through the marketplace, he considered what he might choose for her at the souk in Rabat. Figs, but around here they were plentiful. She didn’t like it when he brought her things she could get herself. This was to be his last gift, and for a rare woman like Karima, he needed something equally unique. He hoped to be inspired before he found her door.
The leather goods dealer was easy to find, hovering over a pair of tourists who looked as if they might be Dutch or German. Too thin to be American. The female of the pair was interested in an embossed leather bag that quite possibly originated in China. Not all souvenirs were created equal.
Positioning himself in Mourad Boulami’s blind spot, Amir watched the leather stall and steered clear of aggressive vendors or anyone who might pay him notice. Even if he were studied by someone, there were few details that could be offered to the police. Before the morning light, Amir and his motorcycle would be in Tangier to take the ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain. He could certainly get a better gift for Karima in Tarifa, but his trip was one-way.
After ten minutes of careful observation, he knew that Boulami worked by himself. It was a small booth. If he had to leave for any reason, he probably relied on a nearby merchant or closed the shop.
Amir wondered why Boulami had borrowed the money. The inventory seemed insufficient to justify such a price. Did he lose it at the greyhound track on a sorry dog that broke his heart? While Amir often speculated, he didn’t really want to know the truth.
When Boulami’s last shopper straggled out, Amir decided to approach.
Boulami smiled eagerly as he saw a potential customer. “Good, sir. Can I interest you in shoes made from the softest lambskin?”
Amir ignored his words and walked towards the back of the booth. The man followed without realizing he was on the way to be slaughtered. Amir had come to expect it.
“I am here to collect on your debt. 100,000 dirham. Do you have it?”
Boulami’s expression didn’t change immediately. It took him a moment to realize that Amir didn’t want to buy shoes. This was a day of reckoning. Color seeped from Boulami’s face. Only then did he begin to shake, sweat bursting from his forehead as if under an equatorial sun.
“I—I will have it. Next week I will have it. I promise.”
Amir knew the drill. People in this position will say anything to delay the inevitable. It was only natural. He patted the man’s arm and smiled. “That is good. Next week is good.”
Boulami’s eyes widened, his shoulders drooping to the point where Amir thought he might faint.
“I will come back next week. Same day. I will see you then?”
“Yes.” Boulami seemed to test the word as if it were too delicate to say aloud. “Yes.” He smiled. “Next week I will be here with the money.”
“Good.” Now that Amir knew the requirements of the job, he needed to assess—
“Please, take this.” Boulami shoved a leather belt at Amir. “With my compliments.”
It was a fine leather belt with a square buckle and geometric designs. Amir took it. “Many thanks.” He bowed slightly.
While not the custom, the leather dealer wanted to please and bowed even deeper as Amir expected.
He wrapped the belt around Boulami’s neck and pulled it taut, jerking his head upward. Shock formed on his face that a gift would be used in this manner.
No, it wasn’t gracious. Just convenient.
Amir shrugged under the man’s struggle. Boulami flailed, clutching at his throat, his feet scrabbling to get a purchase, but Amir got behind him and forced him to the ground.
They stayed like this for several minutes. When Boulami no longer resisted, his body relaxed, but Amir remained with the belt around his neck until all life receded to the beyond.
Amir rolled up the belt and tucked it in his pocket before exiting the booth. He walked through the marketplace via a different street, strolling past the stalls like a man killing time. When he reached the next street, he walked until he reached the Marrakesh gate and left the Old Medina.
On the one-hour drive to Rabat, he stopped to refuel his tank and dispose of the belt. By now news of the leather dealer’s death would be known, but Amir would never be a suspect, and Sekkat would know that the debt had not been paid.
He reached the souk in Rabat by the afternoon and searched for Karima’s gift. Perhaps jewelry this time since they were parting. Nothing that spoke of promise. Nothing extravagant that might draw the attention of her husband. Just something for her to remember him by when he was gone.
Among the many bejeweled items for sale, Amir found a rare Tuareg cuff worn on the ankle. It was made of silver, adorned with pomegranate etchings, and fastened by a pin closure. On her slim ankle, it would be stunning. He planned to place it around her ankle while she wore nothing else. He wrapped his purchase in a silk scarf and drove to Karima’s.
He parked his motorcycle around the corner from their love nest, a small house stacked amid the hills overlooking the sea. They always met here, but she said this was not her home. Where her husband was tonight or on any other occasion, Amir neither knew nor cared, especially when Karima met him at the door with a smile that glittered like a mirage.
Amir decided he wouldn’t tell her he was leaving until it was time to go. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her at all. For now, he planned to embrace her ample pleasures.
She pulled him inside and kissed him, her hands sweeping across his back pockets. “What did you bring me this time?”
He kept her from taking the prize by moving it to his shirt pocket. It was all part of their dance.
“In good time.” He sighed. “The day was long, and I am glad to be done with it.”
“Come.” Her hand gripped his. “I have mint tea and pastries.”
He sat in his usual place, and she poured tea. Now that the tensions of the day were done, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “How long do we have?”
“Until the morning.”
They talked of nothing, and they talked of everything. Her travels. Her family. She spoke in generic terms. All Amir really did was listen.
When she exhausted her supply of words, she stood. “Enough talk.”
Amir knew well what that meant and was eager to oblige her. They stood and pressed against each other before stepping slowly toward the bedroom.
Then the door opened.
Karima gasped.
Amir gasped, too, when he saw pudgy, stringy-haired Nizar Sekkat enter the room.
“Nizar, what are you doing here?” She backed up toward a desk, increasing the distance between herself and Sekkat.
His smile held a threat, and his fist held a knife. “I believe I get to ask that question of my wife.”
Amir said, “I had no idea—”
“I was talking to my wife.”
Under normal circumstances, he could easily overpower the smaller man, but the knife was an equalizer. Amir would have to wait for an opportune moment to take control.
Karima stammered, “It-it is not what it looks like, Nizar.”
“You forget yourself, my lovely. I have known about your dalliance for a while.” He didn’t look away from Karima while she seemed to shrink under his gaze. “While it upset me when I first learned your secret, it left me free to tend my business. But now that your lover is leaving—”
Her head snapped toward Amir.
“—I must insist on reclaiming you as solely mine. Even if I have to ruin your pretty face to make it so.” He flicked the knife toward Amir. “I have no need of you for now. But be certain, I will find you again when it is convenient for me. Go. Get out of here.”
Before Amir could respond, Karima rushed toward her husband. Something glinted in her hand, and she rammed it into his chest. Sekkat merely looked startled as a crimson stain blossomed on his white shirt.
“You pig! I hate you!” Karima spit the words at him. “You promised to keep me in splendor, but you keep all your dirty money for yourself!” Her chest heaved, her hand still clutching a pair of scissors as her husband bled.
Sekkat dropped the knife, crumpling onto the floor in a heap.
Karima let the scissors fall. Her hands covered her gaping mouth.
Amir wasn’t sure what to do.
“You have to help me get him out of here.” She brushed back her hair. “We have to load him into the car and dump his body somewhere.” Her head shook. “The ocean, maybe. Or the desert. Which is better? Which is better?”
“You have to calm yourself, so I can think.” He took her by the wrists. “Get my cigarettes. I left them on the table by the teapot.” He stared until her eyes met his. “Can you do that?”
“Will you help me?”
“Of course I’ll help you. But first, I need a smoke. And bring me a teacup. Do you mind?”
“Cigarette. Teacup. Yes, I will get them.” She left him and went into the living room, mumbling to him or herself as she went. She returned a moment later with the pack and cup.
Amir sat against the back of the couch, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. He offered it to her, but she declined. Her dead husband lay on the floor before them.
They stayed this way in silence. If Karima started to say something, Amir held up his hand to stop her. This was no time to crowd his thoughts with female chatter. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the teacup. He set it on the floor.
She was beside him now, pawing at his arm. “Do you have a plan? Do you know what we are going to do?”
He gently kissed her lips. He pulled her present from his shirt and handed it to her. The gesture made her flinch.
“Open it.”
A smile arced across her face. “What is it?”
She put it in her palm and spread out the silk. When the treasure was revealed, she purred, “It is exquisite.”
And so was she.
“For my ankle?”
He nodded.
She placed her bare foot on his groin and wrapped the cuff around her ankle, the silk scarf fluttering to the floor.
Receiving gifts and adoration, this was her element. She could never belong to the little man on the floor. Karima was the kind of woman that no man could own.
When she stood to admire the anklet, Amir rammed Sekkat’s knife into her chest.
She was also the kind of woman that no man could trust.
As he twisted the knife, she whimpered before joining Sekkat in the beyond. Amir positioned her body where the double-murder scenario seemed most plausible. He wiped down the knife and pressed it into Sekkat’s hand before letting it fall to the floor.
Amir spent the next hour wiping down things he’d touched, replacing any fingerprints with those of Sekkat and relieving them both of their unneeded cash. As for the anklet, Amir had wanted to see it grace Karima’s lovely ankle at least once. He rewrapped it in the silk scarf to keep for someone he would meet in the future. Any evidence that remained, well, he’d rely on the incompetence of the police.
Leaving the house under the cover of darkness, he took the long way to the ferry port in Tangier, where he bought a passage for himself and his motorcycle to Tarifa. When he landed in Europe, he planned to call the Americans. They said they could always use a man like him, a man willing to put in a day’s work.
THE END