48

Jalal took another breath of the fetid tannery air, wondering if the stench was penetrating his skin. He said, “How can you stand working here?”

Wasim glanced at the salesman and said, “You get used to it.”

Jalal nodded and said, “We’ll talk tonight. Can I get a key to your apartment? I’ll meet you there.”

Wasim said, “Yes, of course. You know how to get there?”

Jalal laughed and said, “I barely made it here.”

Wasim pulled out a key and said, “Tell a cab to take you to the old Jewish quarter, next to the royal palace. If they don’t know that, tell them Fes Mellah. You’ll get dropped off at the front of the palace.”

Jalal took the key, saying, “And?”

Wasim explained how to get to the apartment, the instructions a convoluted mess of turns. Jalal had him write the directions on a piece of paper. When he was done, Jalal asked, “Is this going to be like finding you in the medina?”

Wasim laughed and said, “Yes, it might be, but the people there are friendly. The neighborhood is all like us. Families struggling to survive.”

Wasim left him, and Jalal watched until he began to work again, wondering what on earth would make any man willingly do such labor. Jalal thanked the salesman, then retraced his path to the movie set. He flagged a cab and gave the cabby the Fes Mellah address. Fifteen minutes later, the cab stopped on a street called rue Bou Ksissat.

On his left was the royal palace of the monarch of Morocco. On his right was a decrepit maze of buildings long past their prime. Initially the quarter for the Jewish faith in Morocco, it had existed since the fifteenth century. The area was now held up to the tourists as the integration of the faiths in Morocco, omitting the fact that the reason the Jews lived there was because they were forced to, sometimes behind walls. Even so, it had once been the prosperous section of the city, where one went to buy gold, diamonds, silk, or other precious items, and had valiantly tried to hold on to that reputation through the years, but instead had witnessed a slow decline, right up until the state of Israel was created.

Once that happened, the majority of Jews in the country emigrated, with the Arabs of Morocco encouraging them in not so subtle terms to get the hell out.

Now the area was a rotting ghetto of decrepit wood and draining sewers, with the modern day grafted onto the past through electrical lines draped between windows and television dishes hanging off carved wooden balconies that should have been treated as precious museum pieces.

Jalal followed Wasim’s directions, hitting a market selling everything from homemade pharmaceutical remedies to bridal fashions, the people shopping in their own cloistered world. He took a covered alley that reminded him of a tunnel, stooping not to hit his head and searching each door he passed. He went by a narrow slice cut into the alley and saw four boys sitting on the ground, playing video games in a pay-for-play cave, a cheap desk in front with a teenager willing to take money.

He kept going, searching each steel door, finding the one that matched the key at the end of the alley, a bare lightbulb providing illumination. He unlocked it, feeling as if he were back in Tangier. Once again, the key worked. He entered, finding a squalid two-bedroom place, with mattresses on the floor, a small kitchen consisting of a table and a camping stove, and a closet with a hole in the floor for a toilet, a bucket of water next to it.

He set his bag down, satisfied.

He initiated the Wickr application on his cell phone, updating the Sheik.

In Fez. The men are ready. When will we receive the passports?

He waited for a minute, then saw a bubble.

Another day or two. They’re coming in a diplomatic pouch to the king’s palace next door to my father’s hotel.

What about the plans in America?

Good. I have the safe house in Norfolk. Still waiting on the money transfer for the purchase.

I need them when I arrive. I can’t do the mission without the assets.

The response wasn’t something Jalal wanted to hear. It’s almost easier to get explosives than what you want. At least there we can hide what is in the boxes. We can’t buy three of what you want from an offshore account and then have them delivered to a house in Norfolk that nobody’s in. You can buy them when you get there.

Aggravated, Jalal said, Are you crazy?

What? Buy them with the money I send.

HOW IS THAT GOING TO LOOK? FOUR STRANGE ARABS BUYING THINGS? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE PLANES OPERATION?

Jalal saw, What do you suggest?

Get them delivered to the safe house before we arrive.

Jalal waited, and nothing came back. He wondered if the Sheik was discussing the problem with someone else. Finally, a bubble appeared with a message on the way.

Okay. I can do that, but you will have to receive them. I have nobody there.

Fine, as long as they show up the day we arrive.

Won’t be that quick. I can’t initiate until you confirm you’re in the house.

Jalal became aggravated again, wondering if the Saudis understood what was at stake. He banged out the next message, pounding each key harder than necessary. We will only have a short span of time before someone starts questioning why four foreign males have moved in. America hates us now. We can’t live in a safe house without someone eventually calling the police.

What is your point?

We need to train. We’ve never done this before. We can’t just get the vehicles and execute.

So get some rentals. Train with them.

Jalal considered the recommendation, wanting to push back, but it made sense, if only because it cut the time down. He typed, That is the same risk. But less of one. Are you sure the explosives are in place?

Yes. Are you sure you can wire them?

Of course.

Good. Know that everything is a risk, but Allah always finds a way. Just like the Planes Operation. Allah is with you.

Jalal closed the app without responding. He believed in the mission but had never trusted Tariq or his father. They never contributed anything but money, never sacrificed anything beyond a bank account.

And then he remembered Wasim, feeling the depth of his hypocrisy. He heard the call to prayer echo through the ghetto. Not wanting to risk attending a mosque, he found four rolled prayer rugs neatly tucked in a corner.

He faced east and began praying, searching for salvation.