56

Johan continued his surveillance of the narrow alley, but the only activity had been the children coming and going from the makeshift game room. No other adults had arrived. He was in no rush, so he’d let Fonzie drive a hard bargain and purchased him a third ice cream, letting the little urchin slobber it down.

It had been a good thirty minutes since he’d seen the man with the backpack, and he was beginning to believe his suspect was in for the night. He stood up and stretched, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Fonzie nodded without even looking up, focused solely on his ice cream. Johan casually strolled up the street, glancing into the alley as he passed. He saw multiple doors on both sides of the narrow lane, the only gap in the wall the game room.

He came back to Fonzie and said, “When you’re finished with that, I want you to find the correct door, then come back out here and describe it to me exactly, to include what’s to the left or right of it.”

Fonzie licked his treat and said, “No problem, Mr. Johan.”

Wanting to get a feel for the atmospherics of the area as the workday came to a close, and needing a reason to remain in the area, Johan said, “You do well, and I’ll rent some video game time for you.”

Fonzie’s eyes widened. He said, “You promise?”

“Yes. Now, go check it out.”

Fonzie jammed the treat in his mouth, getting the last of it, then nodded, his cheeks comically full. He glanced back once, then entered the alley. Johan changed his vantage point so he could watch him walk all the way down.

Fonzie studied the first door, then the next, determining which way the numbers ran. He skipped the next two but stopped at the video game cave, staring at the screen and the children playing for a good five minutes. Johan was contemplating tossing a pebble into the alley to get his attention; then Fonzie continued on his own.

He walked deeper and deeper, so far in that Johan would occasionally lose sight of him in the murkiness between the hanging lightbulbs. Eventually, he stopped at the final door on the right side, directly underneath a bare bulb. He paused for a moment, then raised his hand to knock.

—

Watching Ahmed talk to the head of the district police, I could see his impatience beginning to show at the length of time it was taking to cordon off the area. Every minute counted, and we both knew we’d probably get only one shot at this.

Back in the medina the runner had not hesitated to answer any question—especially after Ahmed had shown his DGST credentials—starting off by protesting his innocence about anything and everything. Ahmed asked why he was running, and he said he wasn’t sure. He’d just heard his name and panicked.

Later, Ahmed told me he was convinced the man was up to no good—drugs, counterfeiting, something—but it wasn’t within the DGST purview. All we cared about was the cell of al-Khattabis, and the runner was more than forthcoming, giving us an address in the old Jewish quarter, now a run-down ghetto. Then he’d given us something a little more ominous: He said that the three men had met a cousin of theirs and were planning on leaving the country with him. Going to the United States.

After getting the translation, I had Ahmed ask where in the United States, specifically, and the man didn’t know. I then had Ahmed ask how they would travel. Did he know if they had visas? Did they go through our consulate? He didn’t know that either. All he knew was they were flying tonight out of Casablanca. As to the big question of why, he proclaimed ignorance.

Ahmed had calmed down the workers and patrons in the restaurant, and we’d taken our capture out of the medina. Along the way, Ahmed said, “We should coordinate this with the district police here. The Jewish mellah is much like the medina, and if they run, they may escape.”

“But they could be loading up in cars right now to drive to Casablanca. If the flight is tonight, they’ve got to be leaving soon.”

“I can coordinate while we travel. Like I said before, I’ve done many operations here and I have a point of contact.”

I didn’t say anything, and he said, “It’s a ten-minute trip anyway. It can’t hurt.”

“Okay, okay.”

Returning through the Blue Gate, Jennifer took the wheel of our SUV, Carly next to her providing directions to the ghetto. Jennifer said, “We have a list of names, right?”

On the phone, Ahmed nodded. She said, “The least we should do is get that into the system. Stop them from boarding a plane.”

Carly snapped her fingers and said, “Give me the list. I know who to call.”

Ahmed passed it to the front. Pretty soon everyone was doing something except Knuckles and me. I said, “What do you think? Should we stomp right in? Or wait on Barney Fife?”

“I’m leaning toward Barney Fife. It’s their area, their culture, and we have three names, with a fourth unknown. Even if we could take them all down with just our force, we’re still going to need police cover for the disturbance. I mean, we might actually cause a riot if these guys are upstanding disciples of the ghetto.”

All good points. I said, “But the time is concerning me.”

He said, “Can’t have everything perfect.”

Jennifer came abreast of the royal palace and Ahmed, still on the phone, waved his hand and pointed. She diverted into the parking lot, and he said, “My contact will meet us here. The address is less than a hundred meters away from here.”

Carly said, “Talked to my guys. They’ll get the names in the system.”

At least that was something.

A man pulled up in a police car, and Ahmed went into a deep discussion, then began coordinating the lockdown of the area. Twenty minutes later—ten minutes too long, as far as I was concerned—and now even Ahmed was showing some impatience.

He said, “I apologize. My friend is not used to working on a strict timeline, but his men are good. Just a little slow.”

Meaning they were on Moroccan time but weren’t really lazy. They’d thump heads when push came to shove.

I said, “Don’t worry about it. I understand. I would like to stage a little closer, though. Can we do that?”

He nodded and said, “Yeah, let’s go.” He turned to his contact and said something in Arabic, holding his phone in the air. The policeman nodded and pointed at his radio.

Ahmed said to me, “Same profile as before. I’m your guide, you guys are tourists.”

I laughed and said, “Tourists in the ghetto. That’s stretching it.”

“No, it isn’t. Believe it or not, the old Jewish mellah is a constant stop for tour guides. It has a lot of history, showing the inclusion of other faiths in Morocco.”

We crossed the street and I said, “Meaning this is a government-mandated stop for that reason?”

He said, “No. It’s some Islamic plot and I’m lying to you.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes and said, “This is like a tourist trip from hell.”

Ahmed laughed, then said, “Okay, right through that alley we’ll be in the mellah proper. I recommend only going a few meters inside, because our address is less than fifty meters from here, and the police haven’t positioned yet. There is a spice store around the corner. Jennifer, if you could do the honor of leading us to it, then ask me a question about it, I would appreciate it.”

She said, “Of course,” and started walking. Soon we were inside an area with different architecture than the Moorish examples we’d seen outside. Jennifer said, “Why do you call this ‘mellah’ instead of a ghetto?”

Ahmed said, “I don’t know. I’m not really a tour guide. It’s just always been called that.” He flicked his eyes to the left and Jennifer caught the hint, saying, “Hey, what’s that? That basket of stuff?”

Ahmed went into a speech about the spices, slowing our march to a standstill. We gathered around like it was fascinating, then Ahmed dialed his phone for an update on the district police.

A crack split the air.

Ahmed stopped talking, searching me with his eyes, asking a question without speaking. Another crack sounded, muted by distance, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what it was: gunfire.

I nodded at him and said, “Time to go, police or no police.” He hung up and we took off running toward the sound of the guns.