Casablanca Blues (2013) (26 page)

Overweight, and with a horseshoe of thin grey clinging to the back of his head, Harass was sweating – a signal that he needed something for his heart. Slipping a tiny silver box from his pocket, he gulped down one of the red pills inside and, in his own time, addressed the room:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank God at last we’ve been permitted to re-enter our offices,’ he began. ‘Despite this fact, the authorities have confiscated computers, files and everything else they could haul away with them. I want to thank you for making yourselves available, and to start by saying how saddened we have all been by the sudden fall from grace of our chairman.’

‘Who would have thought he would have had such an interest in Class A drugs?’ mumbled the man on Harass’s right.

‘C’mon,’ said François Lassalle, the only Frenchman on the board, ‘what planet are you from? This is clearly a set-up!’

Patricia Ross held out her hands. She was seated at the side of the conference table, in a special place reserved for her.

‘The timing was certainly convenient,’ she said quietly. ‘Discovered moments after the start of his anti-corruption crusade.’

‘Of course he was framed,’ affirmed Nadim Lahlou, sitting at the far end of the table. ‘We all know Omary’s no drug dealer.’

‘Is anyone aware of where exactly he’s been taken?’ asked Driss Senbel.

‘To the desert, or the mountains. One of those hell-holes they keep ready for terrorists. Does it really matter?’ Lahlou replied.

‘What matters is what we’re going to do to save him,’ said Patricia Ross.

The directors allowed their gaze to slip onto the notepads and pencils before them.

None said a word. None, that is, until Hamza Harass stood up.

‘Hicham Omary’s empire is crumbling,’ he said. ‘It’s lost eighty-five per cent stock value in a week. I’d be surprised if it’s still open for business by the weekend. Globalcom’s about to be vaporized – wiped off the map.’

‘The shareholders are insisting that trading be suspended,’ said a slim bespectacled man on the left of the table.

Harass wiped a hand over his face.

‘There may be a solution,’ he said. ‘A frail lifeline.’

‘Coming in what form?’ asked Lahlou.

‘In the form of a takeover.’

‘Are you out of your mind? Sell Globalcom without Omary’s blessing? He’d rip out your heart.’

Hamza Harass shrugged.

‘From where I’m sitting,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t look as if Mr. Omary has any cards left to play. He’s not in a position to agree or disagree to anything at all. By Clause 75 of the firm’s company code there is a provision “in extraordinary circumstances that the board of directors are permitted to act in the best interest of the whole”.’

‘
Meaning
?’

‘Meaning that we salvage something from a sinking ship.’

‘By allowing her to be chopped up while she’s still worth something for scrap?’ Lahlou sighed.

Patricia Ross held up a hand.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, wary of the fact she was not on the board and, as such, hardly worthy of an opinion. ‘But as directors of the Omary family firm, ought you not to consider discussing the situation with Mr. Omary’s daughter?’

‘
Ghita
?’ laughed Senbel.

‘Yes, Ghita.’

Harass choked.

‘As you know, my son was engaged to be married to her. She’s a socialite, a socialite with a brain the size of a pea.’

‘I’ve been trying to locate her,’ said Ross. ‘The Omary mansion has been sealed as you all know. And all her friends appear to have disowned her.’

‘Welcome to reality, Miss Omary,’ said Lassalle.

Hamza Harass clapped his hands hard.

‘Ladies, gentlemen!’ he boomed. ‘I should like to request that the board reconvene tomorrow at twelve noon to vote on the course of action to take.’

One hundred and one

While his passengers slept, squeezed up together in the front seat, Saed succeeded in outrunning both the gangsters and the police.

The scarlet Ferrari fishtailed through the outskirts of Casablanca, roaring like a monster in a cage. Carving a path through the maze of backstreets, it managed to circumvent the city’s evening gridlock entirely.

As he neared the Marché Central, the shoeshine boy did a handbrake turn into a snug parking spot.

Blaine woke up at the scent of burning rubber.

‘Wwwwhat’s going on?’ he spluttered, opening his eyes.

‘Casablanca,’ Saed announced.

‘
Already
?’

‘How’s that possible?’ said Ghita, opening an eye.

Saed slipped the key from the ignition.

‘Ferrari,’ he said.

One hundred and two

Next morning, an army of painters in scruffy overalls were at work on a great hulk of Art Deco might, on Boulevard Mohammed V. They were slopping thin white emulsion hurriedly over its façade. Another team were busy painting the next building, and yet another the one beside that.

Every few yards there stood a worker eagerly sweeping the street, or an electrician struggling to make sense of an outdated junction box.

It was as though a wind of renaissance was blowing in.

Walking down the boulevard, Blaine marvelled at the revival. As he did so, a newspaper seller on the street corner near Marché Central caught his eye. He jabbed a thumb at a passing pickup truck and winked.

The vehicle was pristine and new, its back filled with bundles of perfectly pressed red flags.

It pulled over.

A squad of men clambered out and got to work hanging the flags.

‘His Majesty is coming,’ he said with urgency.

‘When?’

The news vendor shook his head.

‘No one ever knows. That information is a secret.’

‘Are we celebrating something?’ asked Blaine.

‘Yes, of course we are!’

‘What?’

‘The tramway. It’s just been finished. They’re testing it now. It’ll be like the old days,’ said the newspaper seller. ‘When Casablanca was famous all over the world.’

His eyes glazed over.

In the short time that Blaine had been away in the mountains, a tram stop had been built opposite the Marché Central. It was complete with electronic ticket machines, turnstiles, and prim steel benches.

As he watched, a tram glided forward without the faintest sound. Unlike before, it was filled to bursting with people, all of them smiling. When it stopped, more squeezed on, but no one got off.

Blaine found himself chatting to an elderly woman with a poodle in her arms. She was French, a
pied noir
, one of the old-timers who hadn’t left.

‘Look at them,’ she said disapprovingly.

‘Who?’

‘The people.’

‘They seem very happy.’

‘Of course they are. They’re allowed to ride for free.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the tram’s not officially open yet. So they ride up and down. It’s like a game.’

‘Free entertainment,’ Blaine said.

‘They should be working,’ the woman scowled. ‘But all they can think of is wasting their time. It’s a disgrace.’

The American cocked his head at a giant red flag in the distance, a large green star in the middle.

‘The King’s coming,’ he said.

‘I know,’ the woman replied, brushing a hand over her dog. ‘That’s why everyone’s working so hurriedly. You see, in Morocco everything’s left to the last minute. They have a saying... “Why do today what you could do tomorrow instead?”’

A little further on, Blaine saw a smart gold sign being hoisted into position on the outside of the repainted Shell Building. It read, ‘Hotel Imperial’, and it looked like something out of Miami’s South Beach. All that was missing was the lady in the hat and the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

Blaine thought of the burning wreckage, a haze of flames and the stench of smouldering horsehair from the seats.

The guardian was standing outside.

‘When does it open?’ Blaine asked.

‘Next week.’

‘That’s quick.’

‘The owner is in a hurry,’ the guardian replied anxiously.

‘Because the King is coming?’

He nodded, then looked at the foreigner sideways.

‘But how do you know about that?’ he said.

One hundred and three

Patricia Ross was waiting in the cavernous glass-fronted lobby of Globalcom, the morning light streaming in through a stained glass frieze. She was dressed in a navy blue suit, twinset and pearls, her hair tied up on the back of her head.

In the seven years she had worked for Hicham Omary, she had experienced a rollercoaster ride of ups and downs, but never anything as turbulent as this.

At nine forty-five Ghita came in through the revolving door.

She took a deep breath as she stepped inside, as though the air was somehow thinner. Before she had reached the reception desk, the American PA cut her off.

‘Ghita, how are you?’ she said, her voice tinged with fear.

‘I’ve been better,’ Ghita said, offering her hand.

‘Believe me, we all have. These are treacherous times.’

Patricia Ross led the way over to a quiet alcove where they could sit and speak.

‘I’d take you up to my office,’ she said, ‘but it’s bugged. The whole place is, except for this one little corner.’ She struggled to smile. ‘Your father used to tell me that if you want privacy the best spot is the middle of Grand Central Station at rush hour.’

‘I saw him,’ Ghita said, sitting down, her back to the lobby.

Ross missed a breath.

‘Where is he?’

‘Incarcerated, up in the mountains.’

‘
How
is he?’

‘Alive. Barely so.’ She touched a fingertip to her eye and wiped away a tear. ‘We will get our revenge,’ she said caustically.

‘As I said on the phone, time is against us. We have our backs up against the wall and there’s no one we can trust.’

‘It’s like the assassination of Caesar,’ Ghita said.

‘All those regarded as loyal betraying the man they once swore to protect.’

‘Precisely,’ Ghita replied.

‘The important thing is for us to stall the board. They’re angling to dismember Globalcom, to sell it off a chunk at a time.’

‘It’s my father’s life’s work...’

‘I know it is, and for that reason you and I have to do everything we can to throw a spanner in the works. I’m ready to do anything – whatever it takes.’

Ghita looked at her father’s PA hard, taking in the soft skin around her eyes. Until then she had never quite trusted her.

Patricia Ross held up a document. It was fastened together in a legal binding, with a wax seal and red ribbon on the front.

‘The Globalcom company code,’ she said. ‘Article 72 states that, as the sole issue of Hicham Omary, you have the inalienable right to adjudicate on his behalf.’

Ghita grinned.

‘I can’t wait to see their faces,’ she said.

One hundred and four

Rosario pulled open the door of her apartment and stood in its frame, her face quite rigid and empty of a smile.

‘I was passing,’ said Blaine, ‘thought I’d drop in and see you.’

‘Hello... Um, er. Please excuse me, I’m still in my bathrobe. I’ve not been sleeping well. I blame it on the damp.’ The pianist pushed back her thin hair, struggling to seem upbeat. ‘Please come inside,’ she said, adding, ‘I was thinking of you last night.’

The American followed her through to the sitting-room, where Coccinelle seemed even more dominant than before.

‘I was out of town,’ he said. ‘Up in the mountains. Just got back yesterday afternoon.’

Rosario motioned to a chair and flopped down in another close by. There was no offer of tea or cognac. The lights were off and the ambience was subdued, cold shadows clinging to the walls like soot.

‘I’m a little depressed,’ Rosario said after a tedious pause. ‘I suppose I’ve got the Casablanca Blues. They come and go. It’s just a question of soldiering on, getting through to the spring.’

‘I hear the King’s coming,’ Blaine said optimistically.

‘Is he?’

‘Everyone’s out there smartening the boulevard up. They’re even hanging out the flags.’

The pianist groaned.

‘That means the traffic will get worse,’ she said.

‘But the King’s coming to launch the tram. It’s going to make the gridlock a thing of the past.’

Rosario groaned a second time.

‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ she said, getting up. Crossing the room, she stood beneath the portrait of Coccinelle, as though following a stage direction. ‘I have something I would like to ask you,’ she said, ‘and am not quite sure how to begin.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, you see, although I love Casablanca there’s no way for me to leave.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In your country you would say that I have “a history”... reasons, private reasons, why I can’t return to Argentina, the land of my birth.’

‘Is it because... you know... because of Dr. Burou?’

‘No, well, yes... and because of other things,’ she said in a voice burdened with memory. ‘I left Buenos Aires when I was young, at a time of terrible friction – friction between the state and the people.’

‘But that’s all changed,’ said Blaine.

‘It may have, but the files are never closed.’

‘I’m not sure that I follow you.’

Rosario went over to the window and, standing on tiptoes, peered out at the street.

‘When you came in, was there anyone loitering down there?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Are you expecting someone?’

‘No. I’m not.’

Blaine scratched his head.

‘What was it that you wanted to ask?’

‘Do you remember the other day we spoke of the murder at the hotel?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I said that I’d heard the dead man was a mule, carrying a special passport?’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, I understand that it was entrusted to you, or that you were passed it in some way – perhaps without even knowing.’

‘What? That’s absurd. We only spoke for a moment about hot water – or, rather, the lack of it.’

The pianist cracked her knuckles.

‘If you have the passport, your life is in danger, too,’ she said. ‘It may sound melodramatic, but it’s the truth.’

Blaine had a lump in his throat.