“I take it,” said Rousseau quietly, “you’ve heard the name.”
And Martel, with the smallest of nods, confirmed that he had. Then the eyes moved from Natalie to Keller, who was standing protectively behind her. Keller had deceived him, Keller had betrayed him. And yet at that moment, it seemed that Jean-Luc Martel regarded Keller as his one and only friend in the room.
“Why don’t you give us a bit of background?” suggested Rousseau. “We’re amateurs, after all. At least when it comes to the business of narcotics. Help us understand how it all works. Enlighten us as to the wicked ways of your world.”
Rousseau’s request was not as innocent as it sounded. René Devereaux had already given Keller chapter and verse on Mohammad Bakkar’s links to the network. But Rousseau wanted to get Martel talking, which would allow them to test the veracity of his words. A certain amount of deception was to be expected. Rousseau would demand absolute truth only where it mattered.
“Tell us a little about this man Mohammad Bakkar,” he was saying. “Is he short or tall? Is he thin or is he fat like me? Does he have any hair or is he bald? Does he have one wife or two? Does he smoke? Does he drink? Is he religious?”
“He’s short,” answered Martel after a moment. “And, no, he doesn’t drink. Mohammad is religious. Very religious, in fact.”
“Do you find that surprising?” asked Rousseau quickly, seizing on the fact that Martel had at last answered a question. “That a hashish producer is a religious man?”
“I didn’t say Mohammad Bakkar is a hash producer. His business is oranges.”
“Oranges?”
“Yes, oranges. So, no, I’m not surprised he’s a religious man. Oranges are a way of life in the Rif. The king has been trying for years to encourage the growers to plant other crops, but oranges are more lucrative than soybeans and radishes. Much more,” Martel added with a smile.
“Perhaps the king should try harder.”
“If you ask me, the king prefers things the way they are.”
“How so?”
“Because oranges bring several billion dollars a year into the country. They help to keep the peace.” Lowering his voice, Martel added, “Mohammad Bakkar is not the only religious man in Morocco.”
“There are many extremists in Morocco?”
“You would know better than me,” said Martel.
“ISIS has many cells in Morocco?”
“So I’m told. But the king doesn’t like to talk about that,” he added. “ISIS is bad for tourism.”
“You have a business in Morocco, do you not? A hotel in Marrakesh, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Two,” boasted Martel.
“How’s business?”
“Down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’ll get by.”
“I’m sure you will. And to what do you attribute this drop in business?” asked Rousseau. “Is it ISIS?”
“The attacks on the hotels in Tunisia had a big impact on our bookings. People are afraid Morocco is next.”
“Is it safe for tourists there?”
“It’s safe,” said Martel, “until it isn’t.”
Rousseau permitted himself a smile at the astuteness of the observation. Then he pointed out that Martel’s business interests allowed him to enter and leave Morocco, a notorious drug-producing country, without raising suspicion. Martel, with a shrug, did not dispute Rousseau’s conclusion.
“Do you entertain Mohammad Bakkar at your hotel in Marrakesh?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“He dislikes Marrakesh. Or what’s become of Marrakesh, I should say.”
“Too many foreigners?”
“And gays,” said Martel.
“He dislikes homosexuals because of his religious beliefs?”
“I suppose.”
“Where do you generally meet with him?”
“In Casa,” said Martel, using the local shorthand for Casablanca, “or in Fez. He has a riad in the heart of the medina. He also owns several villas in the Rif and the Middle Atlas.”
“He moves around a lot?”
“Oranges are a dangerous business.”
Again Rousseau smiled. Even he was not immune to Martel’s immense charm.
“And when you meet with Monsieur Bakkar? What do you discuss?”
“Brexit. The new American president. The prospects for peace in the Middle East. The usual.”
“Obviously,” said Rousseau, “you’re joking.”
“Not at all. Mohammad is quite intelligent, and he’s interested in the world beyond the Rif.”
“How would you describe his politics?”
“He’s not an admirer of the West. He harbors a particular resentment toward France and America. As a rule, I try not to utter the word Israel in his presence.”
“It angers him?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“And yet you do business with such a man.”
“His oranges,” said Martel, “are very fine.”
“And when you’re done talking about the state of the world? What then?”
“Prices, production schedule, delivery dates—that sort of thing.”
“Prices fluctuate?”
“Supply and demand,” explained Martel.
“A few years ago,” Rousseau went on, “we noticed a distinct change in the way oranges were moving out of North Africa. Instead of coming across the Mediterranean one or two at a time aboard small vessels, it was tons of oranges in large cargo ships, all of which departed from ports in Libya. Was there a sudden glut on the market? Or is there some other reason to explain the shift in strategy?”
“The latter,” said Martel.
“And that was?”
“Mohammad decided to take on a partner.”
“An individual?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he would have to be a man, because someone like Mohammad Bakkar would never deal with a woman.”
Martel nodded.
“He wanted to take a more aggressive market posture?”
“Much more aggressive.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to maximize profits quickly.”
“You met him?”
“Twice.”
“His name?”
“Khalil.”
“Khalil what?”
“That’s all, just Khalil.”
“He was a Moroccan?”
“No, he was definitely not a Moroccan.”
“Where was he from?”
“He never said.”
“And if you were to hazard a guess?”
Jean-Luc Martel shrugged. “I’d say he was an Iraqi.”
40
C?te d’Azur, France