“The strange thing is that he had been dead at least twelve hours. A courier sent that envelope this morning. That means someone other than Rizki took care of sending me the photos.”
This revelation sent off alarms in Bond’s mind. “You have no other people in the Rif?”
“No. Rizki was the only one.”
“Then the enemy must have made sure you got those photos.
Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out.”
A little less than an hour later, they arrived in the quaint village of Chefchaouen, which was known as the “blue city.” This was because the walls of the buildings were painted blue four or five times a year. The blue paint supposedly kept the interiors cool in the summer and warm in the winter.
“Chaouen is one of my favorite places in Morocco,” Reggab said as he pulled the Land Rover onto a main artery entering the city. “I think I will retire here. We are going to stop a moment, all right? I need to pay respects to Rizki’s family.”
The blue-washed houses were built up a gentle slope that culminated in a magnificent mountain overlooking the entire village. In the moonlight, they appeared to be ghostly, luminescent structures floating above ground level.
Bond followed Reggab into the medina, which was now sparsely populated and dark. The odors of the day’s produce lingered, and Bond wondered if they ever went away. After a couple of twists and turns in the path, they came upon a baker’s quarters. Reggab knocked on the door. When it opened, an older man almost said something nasty to the stranger who was disturbing the family’s grief, but he recognized Reggab and embraced him warmly.
As is common in Morocco, the door was set into a frame in the wall so that one had to step over a sill to enter the building. A family of six or seven men and women were inside, all mourning the loss of their loved one. Reggab spoke quietly with the older woman, whom Bond presumed to be Rizki’s wife. Mint tea was offered, and Reggab and Bond felt obliged to stay for a while. Bond was sorry for the family’s loss and that one of Latif’s operatives had been murdered, but he was anxious to get to the campsite.
Finally, Reggab made his excuses and stood up to leave. He embraced each family member and led Bond away with a loaf of bread in each hand.
On the way back to the Land Rover, he said, “Rizki’s body was found on the side of the road near the camp. His throat had been cut.”
The men exchanged glances, knowing full well what that implied.
The journey continued eastward toward Ketama, which was supposedly the hub of kif activity in Morocco. At one point, an intimidating black Mercedes appeared from nowhere in front of them, moving slowly. Reggab slowed down and was forced to follow closely behind the Mercedes. The narrow, winding road was treacherous in the dark, and even the most courageous of drivers would think twice before overtaking. Before Reggab could attempt it, the Mercedes stopped abruptly. Reggab slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to avoid ramming the back of the car. Three rough-looking characters got out of the Mercedes and approached the Land Rover.
Bond was ready to draw his gun. Reggab put his hand on his friend’s arm, indicating that he had it under control. He leaned out the window and spoke quickly to the men in Arabic. Reggab spat words at them, after which they appeared to apologize, bowed, got back into the Mercedes, and drove away.
“What was that all about?” Bond asked.
“They wanted to sell us a kilo of kif,” Reggab replied. “If we hadn’t agreed to buy it from them, there was a possibility that we would have been forced to do so. They thought I was a guide bringing a tourist into the mountains. When I explained that I was a ‘policeman,’ they decided to leave us alone. Don’t worry; it happens all the time. You just have to know how to handle these characters.”
An hour later, the nearly full moon cast a chilling glow over a dark landscape filled with large, ominous black shapes. They were in the very heart of the Rif Mountains.
“We are almost there,” Reggab said. He peered through the windscreen, concentrating, as the road was inadequately illuminated by the headlamps. Finally, he pointed and said, “There. That’s our landmark.”
In the brief moment in which it was visible, Bond had seen a berraka built on the side of the road. At least one mule was hitched to the side and there had been a light—a campfire?—just in front of the berraka. It had been impossible to see how many human beings might have been there. Bond guessed two.
“They look like a couple of shepherds. The sheep are over there, on the side of that hill, you can barely see them in the moonlight.”
Bond said, “I see them.”
“They are really some kind of lookout for this camp. The turnoff is up ahead.”
“Won’t they report having seen you?”
Reggab shook his head. “This is still a major highway. The amount of traffic that comes through would not be worth keeping track of.”
“Unless what you’re trying to hide is important enough,” Bond suggested.
Reggab grunted in agreement and made a sharp right onto a pitchblack dirt road. It wound around a mountain and eventually came to a bridge. Reggab slowed and parked the Land Rover beside the entrance to the bridge.
“The camp is just on the other side of the bridge, about a kilometer away. There’s a gate there with at least two guards. Now. We’re going to get out here and climb this mountain. Up there you can get a good view of the place. There’s no fence on that side of the camp. The mountain serves as the barrier.”
“Lead the way,” Bond said. Before getting out of the Land Rover, he took four of Dr. Feare’s pills. The headache gauge was climbing upward toward the “excruciating” mark.
Without the moonlight, climbing the mountain would have been impossible. They settled on a ledge near the top. The camp was approximately forty meters down the south face of the hill. Several campfires were burning amidst tents, berrakas, and some portable buildings. A number of jeeps, four-wheel drives, as well as horses and mules, were set off to one side. Bond could faintly hear Moroccan folk music coming from the largest tent, which was big enough to hold a circus ring. Reggab handed him a pair of field glasses. Bond put them to his eyes and adjusted the infrared brightness. He could now see men walking about. They were dressed mostly in army fatigues. Many of them looked European or North American. Others were dressed in traditional Arab or Berber clothing. They all carried guns.
“Latif, I think you’re right about this being some kind of terrorist training camp,” Bond said. “Those men are armed. How do the police let them get away with this?”
“It’s private property,” Reggab whispered. “Whoever owns it apparently has more influence over these parts than the government. If the Union is behind it, then there is a lot of money to throw around. Morocco is not a wealthy country, so it’s very easy to bribe the officials. Look, that big tent is where they feed everyone. It serves as a mess during the day and a bar at night. We know that prostitutes are brought in some nights, and they leave in the mornings. If we could get some hard evidence that they are harboring heavy arms, we could maybe do something. So far, though, all the weapons you see are legal.” He pointed to a relatively flat area. “Sometimes helicopters land there in that field. It’s used during the day for training; the men are always out there exercising. Some target practice goes on, and we really can’t get them for that.”
“I’m going down to take a closer look,” Bond said, handing back the glasses.
“I can’t let you do that, James. It’s too dangerous.”
“You can’t stop me, Latif. Look, meet me back at the Land Rover in thirty minutes. I have to try and find these men. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”