The man rose, gathered in the silver, and motioned Hunter to a miniscule office at the rear of the control tower. They went inside and the man closed the door, effectively blocking out the noisy confusion of the air controllers.
“Said el-Fauzi,” the man said, introducing himself, extending his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, major.”
Hunter shook his hand. “Really? ‘An honor’?”
“Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, producing a bottle and pouring out two drinks into miniature, porcelain cups. “I worked with US Naval Intelligence during the war. We — everyone — knew of your F-16 squadron and the big air battles. After the war, the Russians let everyone know that you and your squadron were officially ‘war criminals.’ That’s what you get for kicking their asses.”
“But you also knew about the Zone Air Patrol,” Hunter said.
“You mean ZAP?” el-Fauzi said. “Oh, we hear a lot of things here, major. All the time.”
The office’s window looked right out onto the tarmac. Hunter couldn’t help but be distracted by the pandemonium outside.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Those people?” el-Fauzi said, sipping his drink. “Well, they’re escaping, of course.”
“Escaping?”
“Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, looking surprised. “Escaping. Getting out. Flying to South America. All of them. Before the war breaks out again.”
“That seems to be on everyone’s minds these days,” Hunter said, tasting the thick, ultra-bitter liquor. His friend, Diego on the Azores, had talked about the imminent war.
“As well it should be, major,” el-Fauzi said. “But isn’t that why you are here in Casablanca?”
“To fight?” Hunter asked.
“Why, yes,” el-Fauzi answered. “To join The Modern Knights.”
“I don’t know anything about any Modern Knights,” Hunter said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a picture of Viktor.
“I am chasing this man,” he said, handing the photo to el-Fauzi.
El-Fauzi took the photo and instantly dropped it as if it were on fire. “That’s him!” he nearly screamed, his unflappable manner temporarily leaving him. “That is Lucifer!”
“Lucifer?” Hunter said. “Who the hell is Lucifer? That man is Viktor Robotov. He’s a Russian agent. Caused a rather large misunderstanding back in America — one that left a couple hundred thousand or so people dead. So now I’m tracking him. Heard he might have passed through here.”
“This man is the one they call Lucifer,” el-Fauzi said, downing his drink and pouring another. He was slowly regaining his composure. “He passed over us, some time ago.”
“‘Passed over’?” Hunter asked.
“Yes,” el-Fauzi said. “In his horrible black airplane. He had several free-lance fighters with him. Ran right through our airspace, shot down several planes, simply for being in their way.”
Sounds like Viktor, Hunter thought.
“But, we know him as Lucifer,” the Moroccan continued. “He’s the most powerful man left in the Mediterranean. Europe. The Middle East. Anywhere. His allies hold every piece of major territory east of Tunisia all the way to the Sinai. He controls everything east of that. It is he who is to make war on the rest of the Mediterranean. People know it’s coming. They’re trying to get out now.”
“And that’s what this is all about?” Hunter asked, motioning towards the mass of humanity outside trying to fit onto the waiting airliners.
“Yes,” el-Fauzi said, refilling their cups. “World War Three, major, is about to heat up again.”
Hunter shook his head. That’s just what Diego had said. He still couldn’t believe it.
“Where is this Lucifer?” he asked. “Where’s his base? His headquarters? Where is he right now?”
El-Fauzi laughed, then quickly became dead serious.
“He is everywhere,” he whispered.
“You mean, his spies are everywhere?”
“Spies too,” el-Fauzi said. “But the man himself. He walks among us, they say. He’s seen frequently. Here. In Tunis. On Crete. Cairo. And farther east. Spreading terror. People are afraid just to look on his image. The poor believe him to have god-like powers. His face appears in the night sky, they say. Even looking at his photo can cause death.”
Hunter closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He realized that he hadn’t been giving Viktor enough credit. He had sown his seeds of fear and hysteria in Europe and the Mediterranean just as effectively as he had in America.
“Who knows where he really is?” Hunter asked.
El-Fauzi laughed again. “One man, in town,” he said. “The Lord. He’ll tell you. He knows where everyone is. Come. I’ll take you to him.”
Chapter 3
A half-hour later they were in a jeep bouncing over a cratered highway, approaching the city of Casablanca. Or at least Hunter assumed it was Casablanca.
The city before him was brilliantly lit up, like a neon oasis in the middle of the desert. In fact Hunter felt it was too bright. A dozen multi-colored searchlights dashed across the night sky. From this distance, every building seemed to have all its lights on at once. Everywhere was blazing electricity. No wonder the light of the city could be seen from seventy miles out.
But, as a city, it also looked, well … too small to Hunter.
El-Fauzi, behind the wheel for the breakneck trip, roared into the city. Almost immediately the jeep was forced to slow down to a crawl, so crowded was the street. Everywhere were shops, eating places, gambling dens, rug stores, whorehouses, and cafes. And despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people, some dressed in authentic-looking Moroccan clothes, others wearing strange, 1940ish styles.
And everything was so goddamn bright!
Hunter had to shield his eyes to look at some of the streetlights. Finally he saw one that was broken and he realized it was a Kleig light, an ultra-powerful piece of illuminating equipment used for filming movies.
Then he noticed the buildings were very authentic. Too authentic. Nothing seemed out of place. That was the problem. From the stucco-type construction to the grand Arabic and English lettering, the “perfect” buildings looked more like movie props.
El-Fauzi knew what he was thinking. “It is a movie set,” he explained. “Years ago, right before the war broke out, a Hollywood movie company came here, built this place. The real Casablanca was destroyed in the war. It’s over the next hill — or what’s left of it.”
“Are you telling me that all these people are living on a movie set?” Hunter asked.
“That’s right,” el-Fauzi said. “Oh, they’ve added to it. And it’s barely one-tenth the size of the real city, and that’s only counting downtown. But when the war cooled down, there were a lot of people passing through this part of the world. We had a fairly serviceable airport, and we knew if it were operational, we could make money and survive. And why build another city? Hollywood built this one for us!”
“God, this place is wired,” Hunter said, seeing mules of thick electrical cables stretched everywhere. “How can you afford to burn this much juice?”
“‘Juice’ is one thing we have a lot of, major,” el-Fauzi said, turning a corner and heading for the center of the small prop city. “Natural gas. It’s everywhere. Under the ground. We’ve got gas turbines. A bunch of them. They drink the stuff. It’s pure and they love it. They run like charms. So we got more electricity than we need.”
It was all starting to make sense to Hunter. The crazy kind of sense that served as normalcy in the New Order world.
The jeep screeched to a stop in front of a well-lit cafe. Crowds of people were streaming in and out. Many of them were beautiful women. A piano tinkled inside. A bright neon sign above the place featured a flashing palm tree and the establishment’s name: “Rick’s American Cafe.”