Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 24
1st April 2025
That evening, the roar of the BMW's M10 engine as it streaked into the dark was all they heard. It was a smooth, exhilarating drive that impressed Mapacha, as did Nora’s skill behind the wheel. With only short stops for petrol, she eagerly pushed the BMW south, passing Murcia at dawn. By 11:00 AM, they reached Almería, where they stopped at a small roadside hotel near the Andarax River. After a quick meal, they went straight to bed.
At precisely 6:00 PM, they set off on the final leg of their journey, dashing through Málaga and into Algeciras. Like Odria before her, Nora furrowed her brow with determination. By 4:00 AM, they had arrived in Tarifa. She found a small beachside hotel and parked outside.
Inside, a young receptionist with a voluminous mop of hair, dressed in white, seemed to recognise Nora and waved. Nora gestured for Mapacha and Banou to sit at the hotel’s small restaurant while she made arrangements. Banou ordered sandwiches and tea, smoking idly as they waited. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, but they had to hold out a little longer.
Almost half an hour later, Nora returned, looking triumphant.
“Sorry that took a while. I was not sure if we were staying here or crossing tonight. The boss says you should rest. If the weather holds and the ‘sharks’ aren’t biting, we will go across after midnight. Here are your keys. Get some rest. I will come for you when it is time.”
That was all Banou needed to hear. Mapacha retrieved their luggage and deposited it in their rooms. Within minutes, they were fast asleep.
**
The humid breeze rolled past them as they stood near the beach, hidden in the shadows. Makhlouf’s instructions had signalled that they would cross tonight. Tension hung thick in the air. The water held many dangers, and the Coast Guard was the least of them. The waters harboured unseen treachery.
Above them, the midnight moon played hide and seek with the clouds. Banou longed for a cigarette, but the risk of being spotted made it impossible. Nora scanned the darkness through a pair of binoculars, searching for Makhlouf. Nothing.
For an hour, she shared the binoculars with Mapacha, while Banou, disinterested, waited impatiently. Then, in the distance, they heard it. The faint hum of multiple outboards racing toward them. At first, they saw nothing. Then, a flicker of orange light blinked twice before vanishing into the dark. Nora picked up a large Eveready torch and flashed it twice. The signal.
The outboards surged forward with confidence. A moment later, the sleek, low profile of Makhlouf’s prized powerboat emerged from the shadows. Under the dim moonlight, his broad smile glowed as he sat in the captain’s chair.
“Salaam, Nora,”he called. “Labas? (How are you?)”
Hi, Makhlouf,” she shouted back.
The boat finally beached, its engines idling.
“Hey, Island Girl. You ready to go?” he called to Banou.
She smiled and waved.
For someone so meticulous, Makhlouf was unusually loud. Mapacha figured he was excited about their return. Either way, he wasted no time. He dragged a heavy suitcase to the water’s edge, waded in, and passed it to Makhlouf, who hauled it onto the boat. Feeling its weight, he arched an eyebrow. What exactly had they brought?
One by one, Mapacha retrieved the remaining suitcases. Finally, he helped Banou into the boat, tossed in their bags, and pulled himself aboard, settling next to Makhlouf. Banou took a seat at the rear.
“Au revoir!” Makhlouf called to Nora as he reversed the boat.
Banou glanced back. On the shore, Nora’s lone figure stood for a moment before she turned and disappeared into the night.
**
The moment was fleeting. A new sound filled the air. Another set of engines, roaring fast.
The Coast Guard.
They had been lying in wait, tracking Makhlouf’s approach. A voice crackled over a loudspeaker, first in Spanish, then French, then, to Makhlouf’s surprise, Darija, before finally switching to English.
“This is the Civil Guard. Halt your vessel immediately and prepare for inspection.”
Makhlouf smirked.
“Like hell!” he shouted back and gunned the engines. The boat’s twin outboards roared to life, sending it surging forward.
The first line of warning shots skimmed the water. Makhlouf saw the disturbance ahead and veered sharply left, then right, before straightening out and pushing the throttle higher. The boat lifted slightly, skimming the waves like an aircraft on take-off.
Behind them, the Civil Guard cutter responded in kind, its engines cranking up, closing the distance. Makhlouf knew he could outrun them, but at what cost? If he blew the engines, they would be stranded and at the mercy of the Spanish authorities. He had to be smart.
His eyes locked onto one target: the maritime boundary separating Spanish waters from international and Moroccan territory. If he could just get across. . .
Another volley of bullets raked the air, closer this time. Makhlouf swerved violently, dodging the shots. The loudspeaker blared again, ordering them to stop. He ignored it. Banou and Mapacha clung to the boat as it bounced and weaved dangerously.
Twenty minutes passed. Ahead, Eddalya loomed on the horizon. The final salvo of gunfire rang out, but it was wide.
They had crossed the line.
The Spaniards backed off. The chase was over.
Still, Makhlouf did not ease up. He kept pushing until the distant hum of the cutter’s engines faded.
Banou exhaled in relief. Makhlouf, meanwhile, roared with laughter, elated that he had outwitted them yet again.
**
Fifteen minutes later, they cruised into a secluded makeshift dock. A shadowed figure stood waiting.
Mapacha rose, grabbed a mooring line, and flung it to the figure, who secured the boat to a thick post. Makhlouf killed the engines and leaned back, exhaling deeply.
“We made it,” he murmured, lighting a cigarette.
Banou wanted one too, but first, she needed solid ground. She scrambled up the dock’s ladder and only then, finally steady, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Mapacha handed the luggage up to the shadowed figure before climbing out himself. Makhlouf followed. Together, they moved everything onto the beach.
Makhlouf turned to Mapacha, questioning him with his eyes. Mapacha gave a small nod. That was all he needed. Makhlouf’s tough exterior softened for a moment before he let out a booming laugh. He had questions about the suitcases, but there was no time for that now.
“Follow me,” he said, grabbing one of the cases.
Mapacha hefted the other, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. Banou carried her musette. The silent, shrouded figure lifted the third suitcase, the one with the audio equipment.
Everything was swiftly loaded into a waiting Mercedes. They climbed in and sped off toward Makhlouf’s house, leaving the mysterious figure behind to tend to the boat.
At the house, they deposited their belongings in their assigned apartments before gathering in Banou’s. She carefully opened her musette, unwrapped a bundle, and extracted a small box, which she handed to Makhlouf.
He took it with caution, settled into a chair, and slowly opened it.
For a moment, he was silent. Transfixed. Then, he began trembling.
Banou’s stomach clenched. Had they gotten the wrong hamsa? She watched him anxiously.
Makhlouf exhaled sharply, closed the box, and lifted his gaze. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Thank you,” he whispered, standing up and quietly leaving the room.