The Secret of Atlantis

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They crossed the High Atlas Range and flew over the sunflower and tobacco crops in the agricultural lands in the north of the country. The Eurocopter approached the town of Chefchaouen form the south and Lea almost gasped when she saw the setting sun lighting up the dazzling azure walls of the town below them. She saw at once why the world called this bewitching place the Blue Pearl.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” she said to herself.

Hawke turned to her. “What was that?”

“I said I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s incredible.”

No one disagreed as they watched the late sunlight illuminating the walls, houses and shops of Chefchaouen — all painted in bright, neon blue, and nestling in the safety of the breathtaking Rif Mountains.

They touched down and made their way north into the town. Khatibi’s house was in the Souika District, and it was only thanks to Ryan’s basic grasp of Arabic that they were able to follow the road signs pointing to their destination.

As they cruised through streets still busy with traders and tourists, Lea noticed handfuls of locals standing here and there, chatting and smoking and the occasional man walking along in a djellaba — a long robe with a pointed hood.

“Look like they’re out of Star Wars,” she said.

“Eh?” Hawke said.

“Those guys.”

“Or maybe,” Ryan said, “Star Wars looks like it’s out of here?”

As they made their way deeper into the town and cruised past the Medina, Hawke cursed. Heavy rains in the last few days had caused some subsidence on many of the local roads and he struggled here and there when the sealed top crumbled under the weight of their vehicle.

Lexi sighed and ran her hands through her hair. She wasn't sure where home was any more, but she knew she was far away from it.

“Problem?” Scarlet asked.

“Blue is all they have…”

“It’s bloody amazing!”

Lexi sighed a second time. “On the way here I was reading about El Badi Palace in Marrakech.”

“And that is..?”

Ryan interrupted. “A highly impressive ruined palace ordered by the Sultan Ahmad al-Mansur in the late 1570s. Today it’s one of the country’s most popular tourist attractions, drawing thousands of visitors each year, all coming to see what was once a luxurious palace, built of gold, onyx, cedar wood and ivory.”

“I can answer for myself, Ryan,” Lexi said with a scowl.

“And your point is?” Lea asked.

“All we get is blue.”

“Well why don’t you ask Mr Khatibi why he doesn’t live in Marrakech?”

“I might.”

“This place is supposed to be amazing for kif,” Ryan said, peering inquisitively through the car windows as if in search of something.

“What’s that?” Camacho asked.

“A very finely chopped local cannabis. This place is pretty much the cannabis production capital of the entire country.”

“So what?”

“So, if you see anyone selling the stuff, give me a bell.”

An eye roll from Lea. “Ryan — over there by the crossroads.”

“What?”

“There’s a big shop with DOPE written over it. I think you should go in there.”

“Very drole,” he said as they reached their destination.

Khatibi’s house was on a steep road which approached the eastern limits of the town and gave an impressive view of the mountains beyond.

“Right,” Hawke said, switching off the ignition and checking the mirrors. “We’re here, and from the looks of things we’re the only ones as well. Let’s go.”

“Oh God — he’s not going to be wearing a fez, is he?” Scarlet said.

“Why the hell would he be wearing a fez?” Ryan said, aghast.

“I just had an image of him wearing a fez.”

“Isn’t that Turkey?” Lea said.

“No, it’s Egypt, isn’t it?” Camacho said.

“Your ignorance is actually frightening,” Ryan said. “Tell me, Cairo. When you used your tiny mind to conjure that image of Khatibi wearing a fez, did it include a camel and a box of dates?”

“Now don’t be silly, boy.”

“And it’s called a tarboosh in Morocco,” Ryan said wearily.

“Well, I’m definitely not going up if he’s got a tarbrush on his head,” Scarlet said.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Tarboosh, I said, and it was an Ottoman idea that never got this far west.”

“I’ll go,” Lea said. “I’m the only one here who is vaguely sensible.”

“Hey!” Hawke said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged her shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

They walked up the steps and knocked on the door. A few moments later it swung to reveal an old man in a badly-fitting linen jacket and dishevelled shirt. He had thin black hair scraped back and set in place with some kind of product that smelled vaguely antiseptic. Lea was dimly aware of Scarlet suppressing a giggle and turning away to face the street. She rolled her eyes and turned to the elderly man. “Dr Khatibi?”

“No, I am his brother.”

“Can we speak to him?”

“Who are you and what do you want?” The man’s English was excellent, with only the vaguest hint of an accent.

“We need his help with a confidential matter.”

“Well you’re not going to get it. My brother was arrested last night for fighting over a game of tric trac.”

“Backgammon,” Ryan told the others.

“Arrested?” Hawke said. “Where is he being held?”

“In the local spa, where do you think? He’s in the jail, of course.”

Hawke glanced at the others and knew they were already thinking the same thing that he was. “And where is the jail?”

“The Comissariat Police on the Avenue Allal El Fassi… over in El Hafa.”

He turned and spoke in Arabic and a moment later a young man appeared in the door. “You’re in luck — my son Joumari is going there to visit him. He’s not being released until the morning.”

The drive through the city to Comissariat Police in the El Hafa District took less than ten minutes, and now the sun had sunk lower and the city was cooling down. Hawke weaved their hired Pajero through the still-busy streets of Chefchaouen, passing various souks and tourists gathering outside restaurants for their evening meal.

They parked up at the south end of the avenue and Hawke studied the perimeter wall of the building from the driver’s seat. It wasn’t exactly fortified like Fort Knox, but there were several police officers and even a few soldiers milling about the place.

“Right,” Hawke said, turning to Joumari. “Whereabouts is Khatibi being held?”

“It was a minor offense, so he’s in the cells on the north side of the jail.”

“And what’s the best way to get there once we’re past the main reception?”

Joumari looked shocked. “Wait… what?”

“We’re breaking him out,” Scarlet said. “Do make an effort to keep up.”

“But you cannot break him out!”

“Of course we can, and you’re going to help.”

“I will not.”

Lexi sighed and reached into her bag. After a few seconds of mumbling and cursing she pulled out a small bundle of American bills. “Five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars?” he said. “You have to be joking!”

Lexi shook her head and pulled a second bundle of Wolff’s money out. “All right, ten thousand but not a penny more.”

“No one gets hurt?” Joumari said.

The ECHO team exchanged a quick glance but Scarlet was next to speak. “Of course not.”

Joumari’s eyes widened as he stuffed the money into his pockets. “The best way is along the western edge of the inner yard, and then up to the second floor. But you will still have to deal with the guards stationed on the corner of his cell block.”

“Just leave that to us,” Hawke said taking one last look at the building.

“What about guns?” Lea asked.

Hawke shook his head. “We won’t get past all those soldiers and police with guns. They’ll have the place on a lockdown in seconds. We go in unarmed and tool up on the other side. All right, let’s party.”

Hawke, Reaper and Joumari left the Pajero and stepped out into the street. The Englishman waved a fly off his lip as he made his way across the narrow side road, flanked by Reaper on one side and Joumari on the other.

Joumari spoke next. “When we get inside, the reception will be to our left through a door. Let me do the talking and I should be able to get all of us through without any trouble. I think that Mansouri and Tazi are on shift. They should be no problem.”

They crossed the road and stepped into the main entrance. A moment later Joumari sighed.

“What’s the problem?” Hawke asked.

“The good news there seems to be only one man on reception.”

“And the bad news?”

“The bad news is that it’s neither Mansouri or Tazi. It’s Hajji.”

“And that’s a problem why?”

“We don’t get on and he never breaks the rules.”

“Then we’ll have to make some new rules,” Hawke said. “Let’s go.”

Hajji turned out to be everything Joumari promised and ten percent more. He was the kind of annoying little box ticker Hawke couldn’t stand, and as Joumari bartered and pleaded with him to let the two foreigners into the jail, Hawke and Reaper shared a glance of concern as what little time they had slipped away.

Reaper moved first, nudging Joumari out the way and speaking to Hajji in French, the old colonial language of the country.

Hawke watched as his friend pretended not to hear something and ask him to come closer. Hajji leaned toward the screen and raised his voice, but it was too late.