50

I was led down a narrow hallway, pristine in its cleanliness, making me wonder how much blood had been mopped up in the past. The guard pushed me against a wall and waved his finger, as if that meant anything to me. He unlocked one of the interrogation cells, then led me in. He handcuffed me to an eyebolt on a table, the door to my back, and left the room.

Same as before.

The door opened behind me, and a man came around the table. It was Ahmed, still dressed in his suit.

This was not like before. The first interrogation had been with some jerk in uniform who barely spoke English, and both of Knuckles’s interviews had been the same way.

He took a seat in front of me and said, “I hope your stay hasn’t been unpleasant.”

I said, “No worries. You’ve been more accommodating than I expected. It’s been fine. Except I’d still like to talk to my embassy.”

He said, “I think I can make that happen. But first, let’s talk about what you refuse to discuss.”

I said, “I have nothing to do with hashish! My God. What evidence do you have?”

He said, “No. I want to talk about terrorism.”

What?

“I asked you if you knew our history, and you became quiet. I’ll ask again.”

I said, “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. What the hell does this have to do with anything?”

He leaned forward and said, “We fight the same thing, America and Morocco. We fight the bastardization of a religion, and it’s fueled with money. Money from others.”

Something different was happening, and I was off-balance, probably because he wanted me to be. The questions were way off base from what he should have been asking.

I said, “I get it, hashish is funding terrorism. But I have nothing to do with that.”

He leaned back and said, “You Americans want our help when it suits you but disparage us when it doesn’t. We’re the ‘good’ Islamic country. Aren’t we?”

Aggravated, I said, “Yes, I suppose as far as Islamic countries go, you’re the ‘good one,’ but that’s a pretty low bar to jump over, don’t you think? I want to contact my embassy. Right fucking now.”

He leaned back, a look of disgust on his face. He said, “So be it.”

He pressed a buzzer, unlocking the door, and a woman walked into my cell. Short, about five three, with black hair that fell just past her shoulders. She turned around, and I was flabbergasted. Carly Ramirez. She was grinning, enjoying the shock.

She was wearing a pantsuit like she’d just come from an office cubicle, but she had a healthy tan that belied her being trapped indoors all day, with a sprinkle of freckles on her face and a little upturned nose that was cute for no damn reason whatsoever.

She said, “I see you’re still making friends.”

I remained speechless, unsure of what to say.

She said, “Ahmed, thank you for your courtesy. If there’s any way to repay it, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Sticking to the cover, I said, “Are you from the embassy? Finally?”

Carly said, “Yes, it’s the embassy, but it’s a part of the embassy that Ahmed knows.”

Meaning he thought I was CIA.

Ahmed said, “As we agreed, we work together. We stop this together.”

She nodded. I said, “What’s that about?”

Ahmed looked at me and said, “I’m your new partner, you bigoted asshole.”

I looked at Carly, watching a smile leak out. I went back to him and said, “That’s not really fair. You have a damn callus on your forehead.”

Before he could get too upset, I stuck my hand out and said, “Sorry, it’s just me.”

He smiled and said, “It’s just America.”

I took his hand, squeezing a little harder than I had to, meaning I almost broke the bones.

Carly said, “Okay, dick measuring done? Because from what I hear, we have some intel that needs exploring. No rest for the wicked.”

I said, “You know more than me. I’ve been stuck in a cell by this asshole for a couple of days.”

—

Three hours later, I was having dinner at Rick’s Café, a suitable location given that we were now planning skullduggery like we were in the movie Casablanca. The establishment wasn’t from the movie, of course, but it still seemed to fit. There had been no Rick’s Café when Casablanca was filmed, but a career foreign services officer had taken the idea and reproduced the movie set, right down to a Moroccan piano player named Issam. We were upstairs, at a balcony/bar area that Carly had reserved for the night, meaning we had the entire room to ourselves. I had to admit, it was a pretty cool place—the best part was that they served actual steaks instead of kebobs made from camel meat. But then again, as Ahmed would gladly tell you, I was a bigot.

I, of course, was still a little pissed at the play that had been done to me. My last “interrogation” had been conducted by a man who knew I was innocent. Carly had been outside the door the whole time. It wasn’t something I was willing to forgive, mostly because the asshole interrogator was in the restaurant with us.

Honestly, I didn’t trust Ahmed. He was an Islamist with a burr on his forehead, and letting him stick his nose into our tent was crazy as far as I was concerned. Kurt had sanctioned it, and I understood working with a liaison, but for me, this was asking for trouble. He believed we were true-blue CIA, so the Taskforce was covered as far as his service was concerned, but he still had a seat at the table.

One that we were now sitting around trying to plan our next moves.

Jennifer said, “So, we know that Jalal al-Khattibi has cousins in Fez, and we know he contacted them—”

Knuckles interrupted, saying, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We know that Snyder thinks he contacted them. Sticking to the facts, all we really know is that Jalal said he had cousins here. And said that he thought they’d been in contact. It’s not that strong of a thread.”

There was a little bit of cross talk, with everyone giving an opinion, and then Ahmed waved his hand, saying, “I can find them.”

I said, “Find who?”

“The cousins. I can find them. We can bring them in. Get them to talk.”

I glanced at Knuckles, and he shook his head. I said, “No, thanks. You’re just an observer here. We really can’t be involved with some draconian Gestapo shit, but we understand it’s your country, so if you feel like kicking in some doors and using the rack, that’s on you. Just understand that we won’t be a part of it.”

Ahmed slammed his hand on the table, livid. He said, “Do you really believe I’m a torturer because I’m Muslim? Is that where we’re at? I’m trying to stop an attack. On your soil. Don’t think I’m doing this because I give a damn about America. I care about Morocco.”

I was startled. It was the first time he’d shown emotion. I said, “Calm down. Can you find out where the cousins live or work? Without using a cattle prod?”

He stared at me for a bit, then became the same calculating man he had been in the interrogation room, saying, “Yes, I can do that. But you have to include me on this. You don’t know the culture or the area. I do.”

Carly gave me a small wave and a stare. I said, “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

Mollified, he leaned back, muttering about Americans.

I said, “So, Ahmed will check his database, and we’ll go from there. We’ll fly out of here tomorrow at, say, noon? Will that give you enough time to do your research, now that you have a name?”

“Yes. That will work, but I don’t have the money for a plane ticket. My government won’t pay for that. I think we should drive.”

I said, “Don’t worry about it. My company has a lease on an aircraft. It’s coming to Casablanca right now.”

The food was served, and I said, “Okay, it’s Miller time. Sorry, Ahmed. It’s mint tea time.”

He laughed and said, “What makes you think I don’t drink alcohol?”

“The damn stamp on your head.”

He paused and said, “You really don’t like me, do you?”

“It’s not a question of ‘like.’ It’s a question of trust. I think you’ll help us because you have to, but you’ll make sure attacks like this occur in the future. Maybe not as a participant, but by excusing those who do the attacks, ignoring the connection to your faith.”

He looked shocked. I said, “You want honesty or some politically correct shit? That’s just the way I feel.”

“Because I worship Islam?”

I paused, then said, “Yeah. I guess so. It’s just one giant excuse after another. Poverty, lack of opportunity, being shunned, whatever, it’s just an excuse for the real issue.”

The chattering in the room subsided, the conversation raw. Jennifer looked at me and said, “Pike, now is not the time or place for this.”

I said, “Why not? He’s supposedly on our team.”

He said, “You equate Islam with evil. A blanket statement, yet you have your own evil, do you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let me help, then. You have the Westboro Baptist Church, right?”

I was surprised that he’d even heard of such a thing. I said, “Yeah?”

“And they profess a bastardization of your faith to the point where they protest at funerals of your military members.”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing. Just having a discussion.”

But he drew me in without even trying. I said, “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen a lot of beheadings by Baptists. Even at our worst, the low bar is someone holding a sign and chanting shit. At your worst, someone’s getting raped before getting stoned to death. You want to preach to me, do it without a callus on your head.”

He took the insults without emotion. He said, “Yes, that’s true. But can you separate the difference? Can you see that Islam isn’t evil, in and of itself?”

I stood up, saying, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Alarmed, Jennifer rose next to me, mistaking why I’d stood. She said, “Hey, what are you doing?”

I said, “Going to the bathroom before I rip his head off.”