Casablanca Blues (2013) (27 page)

‘Is life in Casablanca always this intense?’ he asked.

Rosario let out a sigh, a sigh mixed with a laugh.

‘
Always
,’ she answered. ‘Haven’t you seen the movie?’

‘I watch nothing else.’

‘Then you’ll know how it is.’

‘It’s brutal,’ said Blaine.

‘But at the same time it makes life anywhere else seem drab.’

‘So why do you want to leave?’

Rosario looked up at Coccinelle and shook her head, before peering down at the street again.

‘Because I can’t,’ she said.

One hundred and five

The members of the board were seated in their usual positions, all except for Hamza Harass. He had helped himself to the chairman’s seat, the only one with armrests.

A long Montecristo cigar was clenched between his front teeth, an accessory as much as it was a smoke. In his own time, he clipped one end, lit the other, and exhaled a lungful of dense grey smoke.

‘My dear friends and fellow directors,’ he said, ‘I now have the papers for you to sign in order for the future to begin. And it’s a future which bodes very well for us all.’

He glanced over to Patricia Ross, for her to hand out the documents. Finding her chair empty, he thrust the papers towards the middle of the table.

He was about to congratulate himself, when the door to the boardroom swung open wide.

Ghita Omary entered quickly, Patricia Ross behind her.

She strode over to where Harass was reclining, Montecristo in hand, and motioned for him to move.

A moment later she was seated in her father’s chair, hands on the armrests, eyes locked onto the stupefied members of the board.

‘Good morning to you all,’ she said aggressively. ‘First, I would like to thank you all for your support in these trying times, and Mr. Harass for keeping my father’s seat warm for me.’ She smiled, allowing the smile to dissolve into a scowl. ‘Forgive me, but the situation is so precarious that I shall dispense with pleasantries. As you are fully aware, Globalcom stock is in a tailspin. We have to act fast to steer this ship around.’

‘Miss Omary,’ said Harass, inspecting the end of his cigar, ‘thank you for your interest, but I do believe your presence is not permitted, let alone required.’

Ghita winked at Patricia Ross.

Rooting through her attaché case, the American PA pulled out the legal document.

‘Article 72 of the company code clearly states that Miss Omary has the full and inalienable right to lead Globalcom in lieu of her father.’

Harass held up his hands as though he were about to be shot.

‘I do believe we are well past the point at which we might be saved by your efforts, Miss Omary,’ he said. ‘I assume you are not cognizant of the JFT bid?’

‘
JFT
?’ Ghita repeated in a voice so shaped by anger that it was barely comprehensible.

‘A consortium of industrialists,’ Harass replied, ‘formed for the purpose of acquiring Globalcom.’

François Lassalle held up the document that had just been circulated.

‘The firm will be stripped of its remaining assets,’ he said, ‘and sold off piece by piece to the highest bidder.’

Ghita dug her long fingernails into the leather upholstery.

‘And who exactly is the leader of this cowboy outfit?...
J...F...
’

‘
T
... JFT,’ Hamza Harass broke in. Sucking hard on his cigar, he smiled smugly. ‘I am proud to declare that it is I, my dear Miss Omary,’ he said.

Her blood boiling, Ghita stood up, and thumped the walnut veneer with her petite fist. Considering its size it made an impressive sound.

‘You may think me a worthless excuse of a woman!’ she shouted. ‘But, in the name of my father, the man who gave you all responsibility and made you all wealthy, I ask that you extend to me seventy-two hours.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Driss Senbel arrogantly. ‘Go shopping in Paris?’

Some of the other board members broke into a laugh.

‘Why not?’ Harass said, pushing back his shoulders. ‘It will give us time to put together the last details, and to go shopping ourselves. For, as you may be aware, the Omary mansion and its contents are about to be auctioned.’

One hundred and six

Late that afternoon Blaine and Ghita sat on the cramped terrace of Baba Cool, cigarette smoke billowing out from the interior intermittently. They were holding hands under the table, neither of them entirely focused on the other.

‘Somehow I have to pull a rabbit out of a hat,’ said Ghita.

‘And what hat would that be?’

‘The one my father has left me.’

‘I don’t know that I follow you,’ said Blaine.

Ghita’s grip tightened.

‘My father used to tell me that his success was based on one skill.’

‘Which is...?’

‘The ability to flip a handicap into an advantage.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘He said the key was to fully understand the situation you are in.’

‘So what
is
your situation?’

‘Well, my father’s in jail, and a complete crook called Harass is trying to break up his business empire and sell it off. Our family home is going to go up for auction any minute, to pay for fines supposedly now owing to the state.’ Ghita took a sip of her coffee, then pushed the glass away. ‘That’s my situation,’ she said.

‘There must be someone who can help. Who’s got the power?’

‘Well I haven’t,’ said Ghita.

‘So who does?’

‘The Falcon.’

‘And what do we know about him?’

‘That he controls the system.’

‘And?’

‘And that he holds all the cards.’

‘So we need to get to him...’

‘And then pressure him to turn things around.’

‘But how do we put pressure on someone that we know nothing about?’

Ghita reached under the table and touched Blaine’s hand again.

‘By using the influence of someone else.’

‘Great... but who?’

Ghita smiled, a feminine vindictive smile.

‘I have an idea,’ she said.

One hundred and seven

Clinique Mogador smelled of cut-price disinfectant, the kind bought wholesale down near the port. There was a coldness inside, a sense of detachment, as though no one who worked in its fusty wards was trying very hard at all.

Monsieur Raffi was lying in bed on the fifth floor, his head partly bandaged, his arm in a sling. He shared the room with four other men, each one suffering a considerable wound.

His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep, his mind daydreaming of an afternoon half a lifetime ago – an afternoon spent up in a grotto shielded from the Mediterranean shore.

Through a great deal of hustling, Blaine had tracked the old shopkeeper to the fifth floor of Clinique Mogador.

With no one on duty, he showed himself in, a box of Turkish pralines in his hand.

At first Blaine didn’t recognize Raffi with the bandages on. But, as he drew closer, he noticed something familiar on the nightstand – the black and white studio shot of Humphrey Bogart.

It was resting against a small blue vase in which a dying rose was poised. Blaine stood there, his shadow looming over the bed, half-wondering whether to take the last step.

A draught swept through the room and Monsieur Raffi opened his eyes. He saw the American, frowned, then blinked in slow motion.

‘My dear friend,’ he said very gently, as if too fatigued to speak.

‘I brought you some chocolates. I was very sorry to hear...’

‘That I had been attacked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the world isn’t as safe as it was. Or that’s what they say. I don’t believe them of course, because we don’t have world wars any longer, just muggings like this.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Find me a man as old as I am who isn’t in pain.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘A thug.’

‘What was he after?’

The old man let out a cough.

‘You... it would seem.’

‘
Me
?’

Raffi nodded.

‘He smashed up the shop. Maybe it was a sign – a sign to pack it all in.’

Blaine took a seat on a fragile chair positioned at the end of the bed.

‘I’m so extremely sorry,’ he said. ‘But if it makes it any better, they came after me as well.’

Monsieur Raffi sat upright as much as he could manage.

‘How terrible!’

Getting to his feet, Blaine walked over to the nightstand and picked up the photograph.

‘I found it,’ he said.

‘Found what?’

‘The postcard.’

He took it out of his jacket pocket and held it up, turning it to the light.

‘That’s Villa Mirador.’

‘So I was told.’

‘Did you go over there?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

One hundred and eight

A voluptuous woman with ample cleavage was lying in a marble bath, swathed in bubbles. Clusters of scented candles were burning around the edge, throwing shadows over the crimson curtains and the stucco walls.

She was smoking an Egyptian cigarette in a long holder, while a pedigree Chow Chow licked the perspiration from her face.

All of a sudden there was the sound of music, Edith Piaf’s
Non, je ne regrette rien
.

The woman, whose name was Samira, but who was known as Mimi by her friends, reached out for her iPhone. Her eyes widened at seeing the name on the display.

‘Hello my darling,’ she cooed. ‘I want to see you! Can we meet tonight?’

On the other end, a man’s voice grunted flattery, then excuses.

Stubbing out her cigarette with one hand, Mimi used the other to toss the iPhone onto a loveseat on the other side of the bathroom.

‘Men!’ she exclaimed in the direction of the Chow Chow. ‘They are the real dogs of this world!’

One hundred and nine

The red petit taxi rattled up past the lighthouse and took a left and then a right just before the Corniche.

The driver forced his foot down hard so as to climb the palm-lined avenue, which led up to the crest of the Anfa hill. He turned again and steered gently round past a series of villas, each one a little grander than the last.

A few feet short of the most magnificent one of all, he drew the battered vehicle to a halt. A moment later, a pair of security guards wearing dark blue baseball caps stepped into the road. They were waiting for a name, or an explanation.

‘I’m kind of on a mission,’ said Blaine.

‘A mission?’

‘It’s gonna sound a little strange. You see it concerns Humphrey Bogart and this postcard.’ He paused, stepped up onto the kerb and held up the picture of Villa Mirador. ‘Is there someone I could speak to, an official or someone like that?’

One of the guards spat a handful of words into his walkie-talkie. Then he disappeared into the security booth and got on the phone. Fifteen minutes passed and he called out:

‘Your identification, Monsieur.’

Blaine slipped his passport through. It was examined, photocopied, examined again, and then returned.

The second guard waved a hand at a solid steel door. It opened electronically.

‘You can go in,’ he said.

Stepping through an airport style detector frame, Blaine found himself in a sprawling garden, a lovely bow-fronted villa set back a short distance from the gates. He walked up to the building slowly, his eyes taking in the Art Deco details, the wrought ironwork and the building’s gently curving lines.

It was the house from the postcard.

As he approached the front door, an American man stepped out. He was middle aged and bespectacled, and had an engaging face, the kind that puts others instantly at ease.

‘I am George Sanderson,’ he said amiably, ‘the American consul here in Casablanca. I understand you showed an old postcard of Villa Mirador to the guard.’

Blaine extended his hand, got eye contact, and strained to appear sane.

‘I was thinking this moment through on the cab ride,’ he said, ‘going over my opening gambit. And, heck, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t think of anything that would sound plausible. So I’ll just run with it.’

The consul touched a fingertip to his chin.

‘You’d better come inside,’ he said.

They went through into a small room on the left of the main door. The walls were hung with formal black and white portraits, a number of them featuring Churchill and Roosevelt. The Stars and Stripes stood on a stand to the right of a desk.

Sanderson took a deep breath.

‘Here’s your chance,’ he said. ‘Hit me with what you’ve got.’

Blaine took out the postcard and held it in his right hand.

‘I was drawn to Casablanca by my love for the movie,’ he said. ‘And through my appreciation of all things Bogart,’ he paused, held up the card. ‘I have followed a treasure trail of clues the great man laid down, clues in the form of postcards like this.’

The consul took the postcard and examined the reverse.

‘Do you know what this number – 07698 – signifies?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

A maid shuffled in with mint tea, poured it, and then shuffled out.

Sanderson held the glass of tea and breathed in the steam. Then, slowly, his focus moved towards the window and the gardens beyond.

‘When I became consul here,’ he said, ‘I was given all the usual briefings about the city and about this house. It’s quite an extraordinary place. As you may know, the Anfa Summit was held here back in ’43. Churchill and Roosevelt ran the Allied War effort from this very room. It’s a great chunk of history.’

He stood up, and stepped into a shaft of yellow sunlight near the window.

‘And the thing is,’ he went on, ‘with houses like this, there are all sorts of marvels. You may not realize it but your postcard is one of them.’

‘One of what?’

‘Of the marvels.’

The maid shuffled in again, this time with a plate of gingerbread. She laid it on the desk without a word, and was gone.

‘One of the stranger fragments of information entrusted to me,’ Sanderson said, ‘concerned Humphrey Bogart. I am sure you know better than I that he was here in North Africa entertaining the troops.’

‘That’s right. He was with his wife, Mayo. They fought like cats and dogs.’