52

Johan wound across the ridgeline in his small rental car, a tourist map of Fez on the seat next to him. He could see the large castle clearly on the slope, but trying to find the actual road that led to it, like everything else in Fez, was a trial. For all he knew, the bit of blacktop he was on would sail right by the fortress.

Called the Borj Nord, the castle had been built in the sixteenth century on the hills overlooking the original medina. It, along with its counterpart in the southern hills, was designed more to control the restless people of Fez than to protect from outside threats. Today, the Borj Nord was a military arms museum, but that wasn’t why Johan was trying to find it. According to Dexter’s contact, the Iraq war picture he was supporting was filming at that location.

He turned off avenue des Mérinides, pleasantly surprised to see a sign directing him to the fortress. He rounded a curve and saw the castle. With four triangular sally ports at each corner, and the top parapet notched all the way around, it looked more like something from King Arthur than from any King Abdullah.

Johan wound into the parking lot, seeing it crammed full of cranes, cameras, and vans. He slowed, looking for one van in particular. He found it at the back of the lot. He started to pull forward, and a Moroccan security guard blocked him. As instructed, he rolled down the window and, in an authoritative voice, said the name of the movie, “Home of the Brave, Home of the Brave.” He knew the man spoke little English, if any at all. It worked. The guard stepped aside. He thanked the man and drove around to the back, ignoring the cast and crew.

He pulled up next to the driver’s window, seeing it was down. Inside was a heavyset man with a full beard, wearing a T-shirt with a USMC globe and anchor, the clothing soaked through with sweat. Eyes closed, he appeared asleep except for the fact that his left hand was working a small travel fan back and forth across his face.

Johan said, “Terry Broadwell, I presume?”

The man started, then sat up. He looked left and right, then leaned out of the window. He said, “You Dexter’s man?”

“Yes.”

He glanced to the passenger seat, and for the first time, Johan noticed a Moroccan boy of about thirteen or fourteen. Terry said something to him and exited the van, going to the rear. He came around to the passenger side of Johan’s car carrying a leather satchel.

He popped the door and slid into the seat. Johan said, “What’s the film about?”

“Iraq.” Terry laughed and said, “This is supposed to be one of Saddam’s palaces. Doesn’t look like any palace I stayed in.”

“Then why do they use it?”

“Hollywood. Nothing has to be accurate. Just different.”

Johan chuckled politely and said, “You have my request?”

“Yes and no.” He patted the satchel and said, “Inside is a Beretta M9. It’s all I could give you.”

Johan rolled his eyes and said, “I hate that damn pistol. Come on, you don’t have anything better?”

“Well, believe it or not, they have a military advisor on set, and he provided the production company with the different types of weapons. This is standard US issue in the military.”

“So they have to be accurate with that shit, but not with anything else?”

Terry nodded. “Pretty much.” He reached into the bag and said, “This is one of four spares.”

He passed it across, below the dash. Johan did a functions check and said, “Will someone know it’s gone?”

“No. Only me. They aren’t accounted for by serial number to anyone but our company, so nobody’s going to miss it.”

“Ammo?”

“Box of nine millimeter.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Looking hesitant, Terry said, “Can I ask why I’m doing this?”

“No. But trust me, it’s not for something evil. I’m on a contract for Dexter, and I might need the protection. That’s all. I’m not looking to use it.”

Terry smiled, the relief flitting across his face. “That’s what Dexter said, but you never know. I’ve done a few contracts that were sketchy, to say the least. I like this gig and don’t want to lose it.”

“You’ll be fine. I just have to go to some dicey areas down south. That’s all. If something flames up, you won’t be connected in any way.”

“Be careful down there. It’s truly a no-man’s-land.”

“I will.” He pointed to the van and said, “Who’s the boy?”

“Some kid who glommed on to me. He speaks pretty good English, and he’s a wizard at knowing the area. I got him a pass for the set and pay him five bucks a day. He’s a lifesaver.”

Johan slowly nodded, thinking, then said, “Can I use him?”

Terry squinted his eyes, saying, “What do you mean?”

Johan laughed and said, “I have to find an address in this maze of a city, and I had a hard enough time trying to find a damn castle. Can I show him an address?”

Terry chuckled and said, “Sure. Sorry about that.”

Johan hid the pistol, and Terry hollered out the window. The boy came scampering over, wearing sandals that were too large, a greasy T-shirt that could use a washing, and pants that didn’t fit. Terry said, “This guy needs to find an address. Can you help?”

The boy nodded, glad to be of assistance. Johan said, “I don’t have any idea where this is.” He held out the address book he’d taken in Gibraltar, pointing at a page. The boy stared at it for a moment, then said, “Yes, that’s in the mellah. Next to the palace. I know it. There’s a video game place on that street that I’ve used.”

Johan pulled out the tourist map and said, “Can you show me on this?”

The boy looked at the map, sliding his finger down roads, then pointed at an area. He said, “It’s in there, but this map is not nearly good enough to show you. There are many, many alleys.”

Shit.

Terry said, “Take him with you.”

“What?”

Terry looked at the boy and said, “Want to triple your pay?”

The kid nodded eagerly. To Johan, Terry said, “Surely it’s worth ten bucks, right?”

Johan said, “Oh, yeah. Easily.”

Terry turned back to the kid and said, “You be back here tomorrow? Can you do that?”

“Yes, Mr. Terry. Of course.”

“He’s yours.”

Terry said good-bye and exited the car, swapping places with the boy. Johan put the vehicle into drive and began retracing his steps from earlier, winding back down the mountain. He said, “What do I call you?”

“Fonzie.”

“Fonzie? Come on.”

“That’s what Mr. Terry calls me.”

“Why?”

“Because I learned English from watching American television.” He began singing, “Sunday, Monday, happy days . . .”

Johan laughed and said, “You didn’t learn in school?”

“I don’t go to school.”

Johan had no answer to that.