The Blue Gate

By C.R. Black

Fez, the centuries old cultural and religious capital of Morocco is the setting for this novella. Deep within the labyrinthine streets and alleys hides a terrorist cell bent on assassinating the Western leaning monarch and plunging the kingdom into chaos. Aligned against this threat are the Moroccan security forces and Chief Inspector Aryad Afellay of the Sûreté Nationale. He must use all of his skills to prevent the unthinkable. This story is part cultural immersion and part front-page news showing the threats which face the Islamic World set out against a very ancient and exotic culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.R. Black
• Release date: Mar 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476182230

C.R. Black

I have always been fascinated by other peoples,cultures and lands. It's the differences in humankind that makes the world such an interesting place. After visiting my son, Erik, who was then living in Morocco, I fell in love with the country and its people. It is my hope that my novellas can show some of the warmth and friendship I have felt there as well as the common struggles which we all face, no matter where we live or what faith we belong.

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The Blue Gate

C.R. Black

Copyright 2012 C.R. Black

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All characters and events are fictional and a creation of the author’s.

This book is dedicated to Erik, whose love and encouragement have seen me through many dark days, and to the people of Fez, Morocco.

Chapter 1 - Wednesday - 10:15 am

O Fez! In you are gathered all the beauties of the world. How many are the blessings and riches that you bestow on your inhabitants. The challenge will tax man's capacities and imagination to the full. Amadou-Mahtar M'Bow b.1921

Quickly placing the precious seeds into a pocket of his djellaba, Fettah Bou Chantouf walked out of the herbalists shop and down the narrow street, barely an arms span wide. Turning right onto the Tala'a Kebira, he merged into the deluge of shouted bargaining by local shoppers, school children, tourists and vendors.

The Tala'a Kebira, Broadway of the medina, was one of two main thoroughfares, running from near the Bab Bou Jeloud, the Blue Gate, downhill to the Oued Boukharareb, what passed for a river in this time of drought. Stretching along them cheek to jowl were 10,000 small businesses crammed into this densely populated, one square mile old quarter, the worlds largest car- free urban area. This was Fez el Bali, old Fez, dating back to the late eighth century.

A cacophony of sound, smell and color like no other in the world dazzled the senses of all who entered. Mixing with the shouts of merchants were undertones of neighbors exchanging gossip, tourists exclaiming over exotic sights, school children hurrying to class from a home lunch break, the smell of small street-side grills cooking brochettes, brilliant colored hanging Berber carpets and kaftans worn by the passing women. None of this was of the slightest interest to Bou Chantouf. What was first and foremost in his mind was to make sure he was not followed by agents of the makhzen; the governing elite in Morocco surrounding the monarchy. He particularly wanted to avoid the police, their military stooges, and especially the Direction de la Securité du Territoire (DST), the Moroccan secret police. Having spent his early years in this, his birthplace, he was intimately familiar with this labyrinth of the over 9,000 streets and alleyways inside its walls.

He had been careful to have more than one safe house easily accessible from several directions, including the rooftops of surrounding buildings and hidden doorways. He protected his real identity by using a cover name when renting the properties, but most usually he simply found an empty dwelling and had one of his cohorts either pick the lock or break in.

Within the small terrorist cell he was only referred to as Yattuy, the tall one, which offered further protection. Few in this city knew his real name since he had gone to live with his mother's family in city of Zagora, between the Middle Atlas Mountains and Sahara Desert, when he was a teenager. Zagora, most famous for a sign on its outskirts reading, Tombouctou (Timbuktu) 52 days, supposedly referring to the time it takes for a camel to walk to the fabled city in the desert. His height and dark skin betrayed his mother's Tuareg ancestry. Tall and lithe, standing straight and unbent, he carries himself like a warrior, which in fact is exactly how he sees himself. He always wears the same clothing; a white d'jellaba and kufi skull cap. Dark, hooded eyes, and serious, often scowling continence gave any observer second thoughts about entering a casual conversation with him.

Walking up the tala'a he passed through the food markets; stalls overflowing with baskets of dates, eggs, nuts, all manner of fresh fruit and vegetables. The meat markets selling everything from live pigeons to sheep heads with unseeing eyes glazed in death. He noticed one of the growing number of American families calling the medina home watching as the poultry butcher swept up the chosen bird, quickly blessing it before slitting its throat and placing it head down in a metal funnel to bleed. In short order the skinned chicken is placed, still warm from life, into a plastic bag.

Fettah did not smile at the young blonde haired boy begging to feed the chicken heads to the ubiquitous cats hanging around the meat and fish shops. Once his plans were carried out, it would be increasingly difficult for non- Muslims to live in his country. He believed in the purity of his religion and like most fundamentalists believed his idea of Islam was the only true version. Fiercely religious, hating anyone or anything that diluted the promises of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be unto him, Bou Chantouf was as committed to his cause as any suicide bomber. He did not believe that the Quran was a living document, pliant to a changing world condition. Islam was an immutable force to Fettah Bou Chantouf, and the world would have to adjust to its sublime teachings as it was written. He was resolute in the belief that allowing the coexistence of other religions in his cherished Morocco was an abomination not to be tolerated.

Hurrying along the Derb Douh leading from the Bab Bou Jeloud with its ATM's and fashionable sidewalk cafes and restaurants, he noticed a pretty, though scandalously dressed young Moroccan woman. She sits without hijab, a head covering, and wearing what he considers is an immodestly short skirt, drinking nus- nus, milky coffee, with a young man. While still the domain of the Moroccan male, increasing numbers of young Moroccan women were also now joining them at the cafes.

She is the evil, spoiled, and corrupt Westernized woman. Her day will come too, Bou Chantouf said to himself, and all those who would bring the evils of western culture into Morocco.

He continued onward, passing in front of the Continental Tourist Hotel, barely noticing a load of western tourists disgorging from a green tourist bus. Neither did he pay much attention to the coffee