The Casablanca Connection

By Victor Bellini

A high-level court case on business corruption is linked to a political conflict in West Sahara. Two brave women with diverse cultural assets play havoc with a senior executive of a multinational corporation. Their intimacy evolves into a threesome of passion and deceit, with clandestine activities fraught with danger. The contrasting aspects of the story underscore a major cultural divide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Bellini
• Release date: Jul 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301585199

Victor Bellini

Victor or Vittorio Bellini - a retired business executive - received his early education in Italy and later in England and Canada. He joined a multinational corporation and was fast-tracked to senior management postings in several countries. In his retirement he drew from his international knowledge to create engrossing stories in global settings. The author lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

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The Casablanca Connection

Bravery and Passion in Battle for Independence

The Casablanca Connection

By Vittorio Bellini

Copyright 2013 Vittorio Bellini

All rights reserved

Smashwords Second Edition

Also by Vittorio Bellini

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In the Trilogy

Adventures in Multinational Business

1. The Libyan Affair

2. The Casablanca Connection

3. The Russian Oligarch

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Other books by the same author

A Secret

Soul Mates Online

Sex in Vienna

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Available in digital and paperback formats

from most online bookstores

Foreword

The Casablanca Connection is the second volume of a trilogy that includes The Libyan Affair and The Russian Oligarch. All three novels have been inspired by the author's business experience in those countries and by the political events of the time.

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Disclaimer:

Certain historic facts related to the armed conflict in West Sahara and the descriptive material of some places and towns in the Sahara desert are real, but all events and characters in the story are fictitious and any resemblance with reality is fortuitous and purely coincidental.

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Primary Characters

Gene Toner, London

Samira Belgacem, Casablanca

Zara Boutali, Algiers

Secondary Characters

Mahmoudi, Casablanca

Tarah, Casablanca

Sharif, Algiers

Nuri, Algiers

Ali, Bechar

Mustafa, Bechar

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Cities and Towns

Casablanca, Algiers, Oran, Geneva, London, Paris

Towns in the desert

Ghardaia

Timimoun

Bechar

Tindouf

Beni Ounif

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Prologue

There were times when I didn’t think I would be coming out unscathed from situations of embezzlement, revolutionary activities and desert confrontations with local tribes in a country still unsettled after centuries of foreign occupation. It brought back happy and sad memories from my experience in Libya a few years earlier. On that occasion I managed to weather the storm but I paid a heavy personal price. I was not keen on repeating that experience but, somehow, my destiny decreed otherwise. I was caught up in a dangerous web of intrigues beyond my comprehension, but I played along fearlessly, aware of the consequences and driven by an inexplicable passion to do what was right, given the circumstances.

My odyssey started on an ominous midsummer day of 1990. It was stormy and windy, with heavy rain and occasional thunders and lightning, unsuitable for flights. I was late and had to run fast across the tarmac from the air terminal in Algiers to board a commercial flight to Casablanca. I was drenched and barely made it before takeoff. A friendly stewardess welcomed me on board with a chuckle at seeing me dripping wet and kindly offered to wipe my face with a paper towel.

Thank you, thank you very much, I said, surely this is not the best day for flying anywhere, is it?

It’s awful, but I have seen worse! She replied with an engaging smile.

Is it safe? I mean is it safe to fly in this weather?

The captain doesn’t seem to be worried, so it’s a go.

As a stand-by passenger I sat in the only available seat at the back of the plane, in a Boeing 727 full of local Maghreb families, with men, women and children of all ages. Storage compartments - whether in overhead bins or under the seats - were stuffed to capacity with travel bags. I found no room anywhere for my briefcase, which I eventually entrusted to an obliging stewardess for storage in her flight cabin.

We took off in spite of uncertain weather conditions, climbing furiously in a wobbly and worrisome manner. In the process, the noisy environment of loud conversations and the odd baby cry turned into an eerie silence, as worried mothers held their breath while the aircraft made its shaky ascent through the clouds. Once stabilized, the human noise took over again, at a decibel level far exceeding that of the aircraft engines. They were happy people, talking in a mix of Arabic and French, with frequent guffaws reflecting their jovial mood. I guessed that they were probably coming from, or going to, a celebration of some sorts, whether in Algiers or Casablanca.

Half the way through, as we flew over the Mediterranean coastline of North Africa, the aircraft started to totter and wobble again in some weird and scary weather turbulence. Minutes later a sudden loss of altitude caused the aircraft to drop a thousand feet in free fall, ‘splashing’ as it were, on what felt like, but was not, the surface of the sea. The roller coaster lasted only a few minutes but to the passengers on board it felt more like an eternity, as doomsday seemed to get closer and closer.

The previous happy jumble of loud carefree roistering gave way to hushed fear and then to panic-stricken desperation. I saw people bending over with their heads in between their knees, screaming and wailing in crescendo as if it the end was inevitable. Men, women and children, young and old, mostly of modest means and clearly God-fearing, turned into a miasma of human bodies bent over to better invoke God’s forgiveness and clemency.

I was one of only a handful of European businessmen to appear relatively calm. I was used to such flights, but not to the extent I experienced on that occasion. I had my neighbouring passengers staring at me in the first few moments as if to seek reassurance that all was well, but I was unable to say or do anything, other than looking uncomfortable myself.

‘Allah Akbar’ (God is Great) had been invoked so much that it soon became a common cry in perfect synch, as people prayed for a miracle. I too found myself reviewing my past deeds, as Dante’s Inferno came to mind. I wondered where I would end up on the totem pole of sinners and considered saying my own prayers, just to be on the safe side. It eventually worked, for the aircraft did stabilize and recovered its normal altitude without breaking up.

It was an experience that made all passengers of any faith think of God and worry about their afterlife. With a little humour - if humour was at all possible in those scary moments - I thought that if I was due to bid my final adieu to this world, my family would be covered by my insurance policy and have a good life without me! Luckily that thought did not last long and I smiled with relief when it was all over.

My reason for flying to Casablanca (also known as ‘Casa’), after cutting short an important meeting in Algiers, was in response to an unexpected call from my business agent, Nuri Attali.

You must fly to Casa immediately, thundered Nuri as we sipped a tea in the El Aurassi hotel in Algiers. My ass is on the line and maybe yours too.

What on earth happened anyway, can you tell me?

You will find out when you get there. All I can say is that the shit hit the fan and the Keyman is under investigation. I don’t have to explain to you what that means.

So, what can I do about it?

You must testify in favour of the Keyman. That’s all it takes. Once they hear from you, all will be back to normal.

You make it sound simple, but ... is it? I get the feeling that I should go with an attorney, just in case I get manipulated in confusing legalese.

No don’t, absolutely no. If you show up with an attorney they will see it as a tacit admission of guilt. They will think you have something to hide.

I still think there is something fishy here.

There is nothing fishy. Just go and do what you have to do. A reservation has already been made for you at the Hyatt. It’s all taken care of. Now, hurry because you don’t have much time left for your flight.

I suppose I’ll see you again here when I get back. I said as I jumped into a taxi and headed to the airport.

I knew what the problem was and didn’t think much of it at first, but on second thought I was worried that I might be implicated in a judicial case of corruption. I had no personal gain, of course, but the modus operandi in that part of the world could be unforgiving and the outcome of my testimony could be just as unpredictable as the air turbulence I had been through. I wondered whether that bumpy flight was an omen of what would happen next.

I had been in Casablanca many times as a business executive but never in potentially incriminating situations. At that time corruption was pervasive in most developing countries and paying bribes to powerful individuals was a must to secure major contracts. Transferring ‘commission’ money to a numbered bank account in Zurich or Geneva was a fairly common practice, but it was illegal. Upon conviction, the recipient – usually a high-ranking government official, anonymously referred to as the ‘Keyman’ - would be thrown in jail for a long time. The danger was real and well known, and yet the practice was as rampant as it had ever been. Law enforcers did not interfere and were often complicit, aware that the Keymen were high up in the chain of command.

I had no idea about who was involved in the corruption inquiry, nor did I care, really, because I played by the book when I negotiated and signed a major contract with the Ministry of Telecom in Morocco. I had appointed an agent, Nuri Attali, and paid him commission fees to do the dirty work. Officially speaking, therefore, I knew nothing about bribes and my company had nothing to do with it.

But, no matter how clean the contract appeared to be, there was always the possibility of a cavil or any frivolous legal point that could unleash a corruption inquiry, and I could be faced with having to defend my business practice in a Moroccan court of law. My company would have distanced itself as being unaware of any unlawful payments, as indeed they were, officially speaking. However, when talking about such deals off the record, the ‘be-smart-about-what-you-do’ was the frequent refrain in corporate boardrooms, with the adjunct that ‘the corporation will not bail you out if you do anything illegal’.

The payment of ‘commission fees’ to an arms-length sales representative was not construed as being illegal in Morocco, but it could be interpreted as such if done underhanded, especially if Swiss banks were involved. So there was a risk, but it was minimal and, to my knowledge, it had never gone sour before. Be it as it may, Nuri was usually right on legal matters and I had no reason to doubt his word. He operated as a business agent for a few non-competing multinationals in several Middle East countries.

Nuri lived in Algiers, but had family ties right across the Maghreb - from southern Algeria to southern Morocco - like most people in that part of the world. It was at a time when Morocco was still involved in a pseudo-civil war in the disputed territory of West Sahara, with no end in sight. Nuri played a support role in it, but did so by keeping a low profile in all political and legal matters. This is why - I thought - he was eager to settle the court case in Casablanca without being personally involved.

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Chapter One

Samira

As we safely touched down at Mohammed V airport in Morocco there was a spontaneous wave of applause by most passengers, with screams of joy and lots of shukkran (thank you) to all crew members, especially to the captain, who came out of the cabin to welcome everyone down to earth again. It was a fitting tribute to a crew that handled a potentially catastrophic flight with skill and professionalism.

A couple of hours later I checked into the Hyatt Regency hotel in downtown Casablanca. I found a message at the concierge that I would be meeting my contact at the bar downstairs soon after my arrival. I therefore hurried to my room to freshen up, following a sweaty and rather smelly flight, and then to the bar where I ordered a Campari and waited patiently.

There was something eerie about that bar at the Hyatt as it was modelled and decorated almost as a replica of the famous bar in the movie Casablanca. Even the soft music being played in the background was reminiscent of the play-it-again-Sam piano piece, while the lyrics of As Time Goes By reverberated in my mind with uncontrollable insistence. That movie reflected fearful times of World War II, with spying, payola, murder and intrigue, and didn’t seem to augur well for me at that point in time.

My wait at the bar came to an end when a distinguished-looking and attractive lady in her late thirties approached me.

Mr. Toner? Gene Toner? she asked with a smile.

Yes? I answered as I got up to shake hands.

My name is Samira Belgacem.

I am pleased to meet you, I said gallantly while kissing her hand. She was truly a knock out and I was smitten by her elegant demeanour.

We need to talk confidentially, she said with a seductive smile. Can we go somewhere private?

Wow, I said to myself, this lady means business.

How about my room, I suggested blithely.

That would be fine, she said in a reproachful tone of voice, as if to kill any funny idea I might have had.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward.

She ignored my comment but with a wink and a smile, full of self-assurance, waited for me to lead the way. She walked quickly to the elevator, slightly ahead of me, without a word. Once in the room she made herself comfortable. She looked somewhat tense but in control and seductively sexy, with long black hair, big back eyes, fleshy lips and an athletic silhouette. She wore a light green dress that revealed the curvaceous shape of her body and made me forget for a while the potentially dangerous situation I was in. As a tall, slim and modestly debonair guy in my mid forties, I had a weakness for the gentle sex and was easily distracted from more serious matters.

I offered her a gin and tonic from the mini-bar, but she refused, opting for tonic water only.

You don’t drink alcoholic drinks I suppose, right?

I do, she rebutted quickly as if offended by my remark. I am not abstemious and I do enjoy wine for dinner and a drink from time to time, but only on special occasions.

Right, I understand. There is a time and a place for such things and this is not one of them, right? I quipped.

She answered with a simple smile. I sat down facing her and raised my glass to her health. Here is to you and to whatever you wish to talk about.

She reciprocated and got down to business.

I am a messenger, she said in business-like manner. My boyfriend is a barrister who represents the interests of the Keyman in court. He is being accused of illegal monetary appropriation which, as you know, is a very serious offence in Morocco. The Keyman needs a written affidavit from you and eventually your testimony in court, if and when required. I don’t know the details, but you already know what it’s all about. My boyfriend wants you to sign an affidavit in which you state categorically that you never had any dealings with the Keyman and that the money you deposited in a Swiss Bank account was meant to be in your name, not his.

Wait a minute, I said quickly, I don’t know who the Keyman is, so how can I state that I never had any dealings with him? Also, I do not have a Swiss bank account.

I believe that you now do have a Swiss account, she said with a smile.

I beg your pardon? I bellowed.

A numbered bank account has been opened for you in Geneva, she stated calmly, while staring at me with her piercing and sexy black eyes.

What? What are you talking about? I was shockingly confused.

The reason, she explained, is that the money you deposited has been switched over to an account that you and only you can access. The argument they want to make is that you made a mistake when you went to Geneva. You deposited a company cheque in the wrong account, an easy mistake given that the difference is just a number. The account you now have differs from the Keyman’s by one number; it’s a ‘1’ rather than a ‘7’. The two numbers can easily be confused when written by hand, so your affidavit will confirm that the deposit was an honest mistake made by you, and your money ended up erroneously in the Keyman’s account.

I was puzzled and confused at hearing her explanation, but I was beginning to understand what they were up to. The plan, it seemed to me, was to clear the Keyman and inculpate me instead. It would have meant that I was paying myself commission money allocated to my company’s agent. I was not about to play along with any such game, but I needed to understand the details of that plan and the legal implications of that weird machination before deciding what to do. I remained silent and in deep thought for a while, as she watched my hesitation and puzzlement in apparent amusement. I sipped my drink, stared at her not knowing what to say. She smiled, took my hand in hers and leaned over to me, seductively and patronizingly, as if to reassure a child.

Don’t worry, she said softly, it’s all taken care of. It’s been done before, so it’s okay. She squeezed my hand as she spoke and looked deep into my eyes, as if to give me a message of availability for more pleasant interactions.

I think you should sleep on it and tomorrow you can decide, okay? She got up and motioned for me to do the same. It’s time for dinner and I am starving. Will you join me?

I got up too, inebriated by her allure, and agreed to join her. She suggested the hotel restaurant which was known for excellent lamb couscous with pungent thick red sauce. I loved the stuff and I agreed to go for it. The restaurant was unusually crowded with mostly couples from Europe, suggesting the presence of a tourist group from somewhere. Samira noticed my surprise at seeing that crowd and explained that in fact there was a large tourist contingent staying at the hotel for the night. They were headed for Marrakesh the following morning, after spending a couple of days visiting both Rabat and Casablanca. She went on to say that she used to be a tourist guide in her much younger days.

So, where is your boyfriend tonight? Aren’t you supposed to be together? I asked.

Well, she feigned embarrassment, Tarah is my boyfriend when he wants to be. We don’t live together and he is married, so I consider myself free to choose whom I dine with.

Does he know you are here with me?

Of course he knows. He sent me, no?

I understand, but you have already delivered your message, and therefore ...

And therefore what?! As I said, I am free to do what I want. He doesn’t own me.

She appeared to be annoyed at my questions, as if she did not expect to be interrogated on her private life

This is delicious, I remarked as I tasted my couscous, just to change subjects,

Samira turned out to be a well educated lady, with a knack for humorous small talk. She delivered her message with composure and had social manners typical of the upper class, something that did not suggest she was a lady of the night. Still, she seemed to be on a mission to seduce me, which made me wonder if she was setting me up or if she was just having fun.

After dinner she suggested we go to a nearby club for some good old-fashioned Moroccan dancing, with belly dancers et al. I went along and decided to play her game, happen what may. We sat side by side on low cushions facing the dance floor, with our legs crossed as we watched the twirling and hopping of some aggressive belly dancers in the club, moving excitedly to the loud and catchy tunes of several string and percussion instruments. Conversation was out of the question throughout the performance. One of those dancers ended up on my lap and stayed there a few seconds in utterly lustful provocation. I smiled and enjoyed it all as Samira watched with a strange grin. Clearly she didn’t appreciate it. The situation was a bit awkward but also revealing, in a strange way, her unique personality.

At the end of the belly dancers act, the orchestra took a break and romantic western music was played in the background. Several couples, mostly western tourists, were already on the dance floor when Samira asked me to dance with her. Tunes were from the sixties, romantic, softly played and easy to dance to and talk. A song usually sung by Caterina Valente hit me. I knew it was derived from classical music, but could not remember what exactly. She must have surmised my mental effort to remember.

Do you know this song? she asked with her arms wrapped around my neck and her lips too close for comfort, while her perfume acted as an aphrodisiac.

I know the tune, but I can’t remember where it comes from. I answered softly and seductively, just to keep up with her. At that point I didn’t know any more who was trying to seduce whom.

If you know Tchaikovsky then you know the tune. She answered as we swayed divinely cheek to cheek, her body adhering to mine.

Right! I whispered triumphantly. It’s his first piano concerto, right?

Exactly, she murmured sensually. Do you know the lyrics?

No I don’t, tell me.

It goes like this: ‘Tonight we love, in the glow, that shines so softly above, and every kiss’, etc. etc. she whispered and hummed the tune as she engaged me in a kiss, gently at first and then more decisively. I was dangerously heating up and had completely surrendered to her seductive charms. I responded with equal fervour. A couple of dances later she looked at the time.

It’s getting late. It’s time to go.

Yeah, let’s.

She told me the bill was already paid for, which made me feel awkward. The usher saw us out and bowed reverentially to Samira, obviously knowing her well. I asked myself again who she might really be.

We took a cab to the hotel and I had only one thing in mind. I wanted her, all of her, whoever she was. But that was not to be. As we got to the hotel she gave me the business card of a law firm and asked me to be there at 10.00 a.m. for the affidavit. I had forgotten about the affidavit and had a mental jolt at being reminded about it, but more than that,