Читать книгу Bled Dry - Abdelilah Hamdouchi - Страница 6

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Detective Hanash was in his fifties, and only a few years from retirement. Everything about him suggested a man who had spent a lifetime interrogating criminals, studying murderers, and unraveling clues to crimes. This was how he got the nickname “Hanash,” which meant “snake.” His real name was Mohamed Bineesa. He would change character by “shedding his skin” and then “strike” his prey. Those who met Detective Hanash for the first time immediately got a sense of his strange personality, and those who had met him on multiple occasions tended to find him quite unpleasant. He was tall and slender, but had a smallish head that was always tilted toward his left shoulder. He had beady eyes without eyelashes that cast a confrontational expression. With a furrowed brow, he would stare sharply at his interlocutor with a suspicious and probing glare, as if he were searching for an accusation to pin on him. He had acquired this behavior from the excessive amount of time he spent with criminals. Even in his personal life he was incapable of relinquishing these mannerisms. He always seemed distracted and preoccupied by his thoughts. He never expressed interest in what others said. Nonetheless, everyone attested to his intelligence and total devotion to his work.

After so many years together, his wife, Naeema, had become a carbon copy of him—she was headstrong and extremely suspicious. Her demeanor never changed, no matter how much makeup she put on. She had dreamed of being blonde, but she was a brunette with darker skin. She had a deep, hoarse voice, and words seemed to rattle around in her throat. Despite these attributes, Hanash considered himself lucky. She was the ideal wife for someone in his profession.

In addition to being a skilled housewife, Naeema had learned a tremendous amount from her husband—in particular, his investigative techniques. She was aware of everything that transpired in the neighborhood; nothing got by her. Her speech was circuitous, and she would never reveal her true intentions. When chatting with someone her eyes would shift instinctively, as if any opinion she didn’t share was dead wrong, or as if the speaker was lying. She considered even the most trifling family details crucial, and she had loyal informants—starting with the maid. She could thread together a scattered story from loose ends. She would trim any unnecessary details until she formed a crystal-clear picture. She would extract lively stories from her neighbors’ chatter and gossip and then report them to her husband when he returned at night. He would feign interest to humor her, acting as if everything she told him was crucial to his own work. Sometimes he would even jot down something she said to make her feel like her intel was vital. She didn’t really care if he believed her or considered her a gossip queen; what was crucial was that he didn’t interrupt her, never appeared to tire of her, and showed surprise at the right moment. He would even ask about the sources of her information, and then charge her with pursuing her investigations further.

Naeema was an accomplished cook—her skill in the kitchen was unparalleled. She was always up early, rain or shine, to start her day in the kitchen. Listening to traditional music, she would prepare breakfast with finesse and concentration. As soon as the family left the house in the morning and the maid began cleaning and dusting, she would dive into preparations for the next meal with equal relish. She would pop in another CD, turning the volume all the way up, taking advantage of the empty house.

Of course, Hanash rarely returned for lunch, and so she would engage in some detective work of her own—covertly questioning one of his assistants in the hope of confirming if he would be home. If he wasn’t, she would prepare a meal, even a traditional tagine dish, and pack it up like one of those prepared meals from a restaurant. Despite this, there was little intimacy in her relationship with her husband. It had been years since Hanash had demonstrated the type of passion they had previously shared. He used to take her by surprise in the bedroom even before he had time to take off his police uniform and disarm. In thinking about their passion-filled past, Naeema couldn’t help but think how her current situation simply didn’t compare.

Hanash had lost his desire for his wife and had been avoiding her for some time now—and she knew it. She chalked this up to his constant preoccupation with murderers, criminals, and other derelicts. The problem was, he was more distracted from her than ever before. Criminal activity had increased over the past years, due to rising unemployment, violence, terrorism, and access to the Internet, which helped in the globalization of criminality.

Outside of the bedroom, however, her married life was great. She lacked nothing. Her husband even gave her control over the family’s financial matters, placing piles of cash in her care, never even counting it. He would give her unexpected gifts, though they were things that had been given to him. He never bought anything—everything he wanted was given to him for free—he just picked up the phone and ordered. He always had her back when she had disagreements with the kids, regardless of whether she was right or wrong. He only asked for one thing in exchange for all this—that she not cast so much as a speck of doubt on his relationships outside the home, which included not asking him about the women whom he greeted on the street, mentioned in passing, or whose names popped up on his phone.

Hanash’s home was a villa from the French colonial period—a time when villas were luxurious, with high ceilings, spacious rooms, sweeping balconies, and lush gardens. As of late, high-rises had been creeping closer to this neighborhood on one side, and a single villa was now worth ten million dirhams, if not more. Hanash had taken notice of this trend, and with a bit of meddling here and there, he was successful in transferring the villa from governmental ownership to his own personal possession. A huge sum no doubt awaited him if he ever thought about selling.

Hanash and Naeema had a son and two daughters. Manar was twenty-five and couldn’t exactly be described as beautiful or ugly. From her father she had inherited an unsettling smile, beady eyes, and olive skin. Manar hadn’t completed her studies, and in place of going to university she got a certificate in hairdressing. She opened up a salon that her father was able to rent for her at an extremely reasonable price through his connections. He outfitted it with all the best equipment, and her clients took to calling her salon “The Commissioner’s Daughter.”

Tarek was the youngest in the family. He was in his second year of university, studying law. His aim was to pass the police academy exam after he got his law degree.

Atiqa, their second daughter, was the only sibling who had inherited her grandparents’ good looks. She had men swooning over her and asking to marry her before she even turned twenty. Despite her father’s urging, she did not complete her studies, but instead fell in love with the young man who became her husband. He was serious and handsome. He got a degree in accounting, and then went on to find a good job in the Marrakesh tax administration. Atiqa had been determined to marry him and refused to listen to opposing viewpoints. It had been impossible to dissuade her. So, in the end, her father gave in. He conceded to himself that the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree when it came to Atiqa and his wife—both were content as housewives.

Before transferring to his current job in Casablanca, Hanash had completed an impressive stint in Tangier as the head of the criminal investigation unit focused on drug trafficking. It was a real golden age for Detective Hanash, during which he amassed both wealth and experience. His infallible police instincts led to his involvement in the Grand Campaign, which resulted in the imprisonment of some of the country’s biggest hash barons, along with other crooks from the government’s security apparatus. They included stubborn politicians and stingy businessmen, who were arrested either because they hadn’t handed over their kickbacks or because their competitors wanted to take over their positions and business interests. Any charge of involvement in drug production or trafficking could land a suspect in prison for years.

The fame that Detective Hanash achieved in Tangier through his leading role in the Grand Campaign preceded him, to the present day. He became a national hero in combating drug trafficking. Of course, the campaign went down with the cooperation of certain higher-ups, who made millions from the hash industry in Tangier. They knew about the operation against the hash barons well in advance. In fact, they had prepared a blacklist for Hanash, which included the names of anyone who couldn’t pay up, or who just needed to be eliminated.

This campaign followed on the heels of intense lobbying by European nations, which accused the Moroccan government of being lenient toward the drug organizations. Several reports had been published in the foreign press that labeled Morocco “Africa’s Colombia” and singled out several prominent officials for accepting bribes and being involved with the international drug mafia. A few Spanish papers claimed that hash brought billions of euros to Morocco—more than all other foreign exports combined. The straw that broke the camel’s back was an intense campaign by a Spanish lobby that aimed to pressure Morocco into reducing its fishing yield and agricultural exports in the European market. The government saw no other way to appease Spain than carrying out this campaign. Prior to the operation, necessary measures were taken to protect the fat cats. And it was none other than Detective Hanash—Tangier’s top investigator at the time—who oversaw all these preparations.

Just a few weeks prior to the start of the campaign, Hanash submitted a list to his bosses that included the names of drug dealers who would take the fall, as well as the members of the security apparatus and businessmen connected to them, who would also be charged. After the well-publicized trials and delivery of the sentences—many for decades of imprisonment—the press declared Detective Hanash a hero, and he was quickly appointed head of criminal investigations in Casablanca.

Detective Hanash’s big score in the Grand Campaign in Tangier, however, was his beloved mistress, Bushra al-Rifiya. Her husband Mohamed, nicknamed al-Sabliyuni meaning ‘the Spaniard,’ had been abducted by a gang that insisted that she not notify the police. She did the exact opposite, and called Detective Hanash.

When she entered his office that morning, he knew right away that she was the wife of either a high-caliber drug dealer or a shady businessman. She was clearly the type of woman who played with fire. Hanash couldn’t get any words out at first, and he could feel his heart start to race. It was a warm morning, void of the easterly wind common in Tangier. Hanash was used to dealing with beautiful women, since the city swarmed with gorgeous women of the north who had Andalusian roots. But Bushra was something else altogether. She had a mesmerizing smile, an elegant nose seemingly carved from marble, and warm honey-colored eyes that you could never get enough of. He guessed that she was in her mid-thirties.

He extended his hand and asked her to have a seat.

What would bring a woman like this to the office of the drug cartels’ number-one enemy?

“Yes, ma’am. What can I help you with?” he asked, trying his best to maintain an authoritative tone.

She stared at him with unexpected calm. “Are you . . . Detective Hanash?” she asked.

He looked around as if she were referring to someone else and then took a moment to scrutinize her. “My real name is Bineesa,” he said finally, “but if you know who it was who first called me Hanash, I want to bring him to justice! And you? Who are you? And how did you get into my office?”

“I bribed the guard,” she said casually, gesturing toward the door.

Hanash leaned back in his leather swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, and looked at her carefully. He was starting to have serious doubts—was this a ruse? Her smile, self-assuredness, and calm were indicative of a woman who was used to all the chips falling in her favor. On top of that, her devastating beauty gave her a confidence he had never seen before. She was calm and collected, knowing in advance that she would always receive a warm welcome.

“May I have the pleasure of knowing with whom I’m speaking?”

“My name is Bushra al-Rifiya,” she said, staring at him as if it were a test. “I was living with my husband in Spain, and we settled here in Tangier not too long ago.”

Hanash smiled to himself even before she ended her sentence. This was what he had thought all along. He extended his hand to shake hers again, this time sincerely. She blushed and her heart raced as she wondered if he knew why she had come. She hesitated, but it was too late.

“I’m all ears. What can I do for you?” he asked gently, leaning in and giving her his full attention.

She paused. She hadn’t expected such a receptive audience and needed to compose herself and calculate her next move. She wasn’t prepared to share all of the details at once. She wanted to reel him in slowly. Her plan was to offer a few hints about her circumstances and then suggest that a meeting outside of the office would yield a greater reward. She shook her head a couple of times, as though she’d forgotten why she had come in the first place. Hanash cracked a smile. He knew he had her in his grasp. The snake was ready to strike. He stood up and walked over to his closed office door.

“You can tell me whatever you want. No one can hear you behind this door!” he boomed, emphasizing his point that her secrets would be safe inside these walls.

She stared into space and thought carefully, searching for the easiest way to divulge why she had come. Hanash watched as the expression on her face changed. The confidence she had strode in with gave way to a pout and she cast her eyes to the floor. She took a few quick breaths. He knew she was trying to keep her composure. He moved back around his desk and pushed the button on his phone to mute so that they wouldn’t be interrupted. He could tell she was searching for a way to seem unrehearsed.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Start from the beginning.”

She took a beautifully embroidered kerchief from her purse and clutched it nervously. “Better to start from the end. My husband was kidnapped.”

He understood intuitively that what was most important was not her husband’s kidnapping, but the way in which the kidnapping would be resolved. She gave him the information, piece by piece, monitoring his reactions. This was curious to Hanash because it was the same conversational tactic the big-time drug dealers used. They would give clipped, half-sentence responses to see if their interrogator responded. And they were never in a rush. They knew that the development of the case was dependent upon every little detail they decided to share.

“What is your husband’s name?” Detective Hanash asked firmly.

“Mohamed bin Bushuayb, known as al-Sabliyuni.”

The detective sat back, taking his time. He was bothered by the fact that he had never heard this name before. “Is he currently living in Tangier?” he asked, as though they had been friends forever.

“He’s from Katama, like me, but we were living in Spain.”

This cut to the heart of the matter: Katama was a world-renowned hash paradise. He nodded, indicating that her message had been received. “Do you have a picture of him?” he asked.

There was a long silence, as if he had asked her to divulge something off limits. He turned to his computer and typed something, looking at the screen. She searched in her purse, and took out a small picture that had been in a side pocket. She looked at it adoringly before handing it over to him. Detective Hanash stared at it intently, as though this man were his sworn enemy even before meeting him. Bushra bit her lip, convinced that she had just entangled herself in something grave. Detective Hanash knew exactly what her movements meant: that this was the beginning of an agreement between them.

“Do you know his kidnappers?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he knew the answer in advance.

“No” she said, trying hard to chart an ambiguous route.

He shook his head, knowing what she was up to. “How did you find out he was kidnapped?”

“One of them called me and warned me not to talk to the police. My husband spoke as well, and asked me not to call them. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but here I am.”

“What did the kidnappers request from you?”

“A briefcase, but I have no idea where it is.”

He got up from his desk and took a seat next to her.

“What’s your husband’s line of work?” he asked with a sense of gravity that warned her not to lie.

“I don’t know exactly. I’m just a housewife. We were living in Marbella and then moved here just five months ago. And then my husband was kidnapped.”

She sniffled, choked up, and looked as though she were about to start sobbing.

“If I understand you correctly, you want to get your husband back,” he said with feigned empathy. “The kidnappers asked you to hand over a briefcase and you don’t know where it is.”

She nodded without looking up at him.

Hanash was struck by the gall of this woman. What she had divulged so far lacked cohesion. He hadn’t yet pressured her or asked follow-up questions as he would in a real interrogation. He wanted to give her a sense of assurance and listen to her without suspicion, but his years of working with criminals had taught him not to trust what she was saying. He knew she was testing him to see if he would reveal anything he knew about her husband.

She sensed that Hanash was figuring her out and starting to read her thoughts.

“I think your husband is engaged in illegal activities,” he said, which clearly took her by surprise.

He was extremely polite in how he crafted this accusation. She went silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond. She knew that whatever she said next would be filed away by Hanash. She muttered some incomprehensible, barely audible remark and then shut up, thinking it better to not even venture a comment. Her mood had changed completely.

Detective Hanash returned to his desk. She did not look like a grieving woman whose husband had been kidnapped by a gang. Her outfit, composed of items from famous Spanish designer boutiques, suggested someone who clearly had other intentions in visiting the office of Tangier’s most notorious detective.