Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 10

17 December 2024

“What do you mean I cannot bring my train case? I packed for Europe.”

At first, she was absolutely furious, then acutely desperate. Whatever they were going to do in Munich, she had planned to look good doing it. After all, it was Europe, the realm from which fashion emerged to ignite hearts universally and rule their souls eternally. Per Banou, every step, and every breath in Europe was unequivocally devoted to fashion. She could not imagine being caught dead in drab clothes for however long they would be gone. Now, here she was, staring at a brown canvas musette, wondering what would pass for her 'utility' clothes.

“Mapacha, it is Europe. It is just not done,” she valiantly protested, speaking to Mapacha, who lacked a sense for fashion and an understanding of Europe. He stared at his own duffel bag and wondered what Banou’s problem was. Simply put, he had no empathy for all of this.

“Business trip, Banou,” he replied simply.

It was a crushing struggle for her, but she kept reminding herself of the mission. Mapacha, however, was less concerned with luggage and more focused on the dodgy crossing ahead of them, the fast boat to Spain. His greatest worries were being stuck on a boat with Moroccans, and in a worst-case scenario, his only escape would be to jump into the water. He hurriedly shoved those thoughts back and focused on the agenda. One thing he had to admit, though, was that if this whole plan was going to succeed, he would need to trust Makhlouf wholeheartedly, at least, for the journey to Spain.

Makhlouf, relaxed and unfazed, casually blew cigarette smoke from his pursed lips as he surveyed the ocean. The view was one he deeply appreciated. It was the reason he loved his palatial hideaway. Across the wild waters lay Europe, and for the first time in years, he was heading that way. He longed for the freedom Europe promised, but with equal dread. One slip, and it would all come crashing down. The value of his hamsa, however, outweighed all of that.

He knew these waters well and held the rights to this route. There was his great appreciation for the easy beach from which his boats could launch and the favourable tide that allowed them to accelerate quickly. This trip was one of necessity, and he needed to gain their trust and prove that this was not some sort of setup. But more than that, he had to prove to Mapacha and Banou that he feared no one. Yet, even as he reasoned that life had to be lived, the numbers kept cycling through his mind. With his boat, minus the hash and weed, and two passengers one way and two passengers back, he figured the whole trip would take about an hour. He had chosen his Apeco Magnum 35, equipped with twin Crusader engines that had undergone extensive modifications in Italy, making it faster than anything else on both sides of the Strait. Its dark marine green colour made it almost invisible day or night. He rarely used this boat, though he had invested considerable time and money into maintaining it. However, he knew its potential, and, if necessary, it could get him out of a jam. It had been a while since he had piloted it, and he questioned his wisdom in this plot. He almost heard his watch ticking. It was a minute past midnight. A deathly feminine whisper came from a veiled face behind them.

“Everything is ready.”

Makhlouf grunted and exhaled smoke.

“We are all set. Ready, Island Girl? Mapacha?”

With the casual ease of a man heading out to dinner, he picked up his faded brown leather jacket, slung it over his left shoulder, and effortlessly grabbed Banou’s musette. He led the way toward the car while Mapacha, with his own duffel, followed close behind. They descended the winding staircase, crossed the veranda, and exited to the waiting Mercedes-Benz. Makhlouf slid into the driver’s seat, Mapacha took the passenger side, and Banou, along with the veiled woman, settled into the back. Makhlouf turned the key, and the Mercedes roared to life. With the certainty he had long grown accustomed to, he steered the car across the yard, through the gate, and onto the dark road. A few turns later, they were speeding toward Eddalya.

**

Mapacha's eyes pierced the stark darkness ahead, but all he saw was an expanse of foliage. The engine roared ahead, and the car's headlights cleaved the night, illuminating a narrow path on the tarmac. The only other sound was the tires tearing at the road, adding to the mounting tension of what was to come.

Makhlouf's natural aggression revealed itself once again. He expertly pushed the car to its limits, turning and shifting with precision. Soon, M'diq became a distant speck, and the countryside enveloped them. By a quarter past one, the lights of Eddalya appeared on the horizon. They remained silent as the Mercedes sped through the town. A few minutes later, Makhlouf turned off the main road and drove up a narrow cattle path, following it for nearly three kilometres. When they reached the end, he stopped, killed the engine, and, like a scalded cat, hopped out, followed by the others. From their elevated position, he could discern low torchlights flickering in the distance.

He grabbed Banou's musette and led the way down toward the beach. They heard the Mercedes turn around and drive off, and only then did Banou realize the veiled woman was no longer walking alongside them.

“Hey, how are you planning on returning?” Banou asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Makhlouf flashed her a confident smile.

“I am taking you across myself, remember? She will return to pick me up.”

Mapacha was taken aback by Makhlouf's commitment to the plan. It made things suddenly more interesting. As they trudged through the sand toward the boat, enthusiastic voices rose above the crashing waves. In the water’s shadow, a dark grey hull bobbed and swayed. A female voice shouted in Darija, and Makhlouf responded.

“In the water, quickly, let us go.”

Banou reached for her shoes, but seeing everyone else had theirs on, she simply followed. They waded into the lukewarm water. Makhlouf reached the boat first, flung his jacket and Banou’s musette onto the cabin sole, then hauled himself in before turning to lift Banou aboard. Mapacha tossed his duffel in and followed suit. Makhlouf barked instructions, and the boat was pushed sideways. He fiddled with the controls for a moment, then fired up the Twin Crusaders. The acrid stench of oil, petrol, and seawater made Banou's stomach churn. She sat at the back, gripping anything she could find, while Mapacha sat next to Makhlouf at the front.

“Isn't anyone else coming with you?” Mapacha shouted over the engine's roar.

“No. On this trip, it is just the three of us.”

Mapacha's trust in the plan surged, and with it, his respect for Makhlouf. If Makhlouf was willing to take the tiller of the boat all the way to Tarifa, then he was all in. The boat surged forward, its engine roaring into the darkness. Once they were clear of any obstacles, Makhlouf killed the lights, leaving only a low searchlight. The boat rocketed through the water, the engine’s noise fading into a deep rumble as they moved into the open sea. The waves were choppy, tossing the boat about erratically before it settled into a more predictable rhythm. The sharp breeze stung their faces, pulling tears from their eyes. The boat raced at 35 knots, and, with one last glance, Mapacha saw the faint lights of Eddalya fade into the distance, swallowed by the dark expanse.

“Keep an eye on the horizon,” Makhlouf shouted to Mapacha. “If you see anything, lights, movement, let me know. We are up against both Moroccan and Spanish coast guards tonight. My people told me they are out hunting.”

Mapacha nodded, feeling the hair on his neck prickle with adrenaline. Even before Makhlouf had warned him, he had already been on the lookout for any signs of trouble. His hand brushed over his concealed revolver as he scanned the water. Banou clung to the boat with a mix of terror and nausea, wishing the boat would slow down. The wild ride and the looming threat of government agents added a weight of dread to the already intense journey. Was this what Makhlouf did for a living? How could anyone live like this every day? How did he know where they were in the Strait?

Banou was wrong. Makhlouf could not afford to slow down, and neither did he need a clock to measure their progress. Years of experience had honed his ability to calculate time, distance, tides, and speed with near-perfect accuracy. He knew exactly where they were, down to a few meters. Confident in his knowledge, he leaned back in the leather seat and pushed the boat to its limits. Makhlouf’s poise was admirable, and Mapacha could not help but draw a parallel to Gwafa’s focused attitude when flying. He knew at least Makhlouf knew what he was doing.

Twenty minutes flew by, and Makhlouf expected the lighthouse at Tarifa to appear on the horizon. But it was not there. He realised they had strayed farther west than he anticipated.

“Lhwa! (Fuck!),” he muttered as he corrected their course and steered the boat toward the right.

Despite the roar of their own engines, they could still hear the thunder of other ships’ engines ahead of them, their wake churning up the water. Makhlouf expertly steered the boat into an alleyway, the small craft cutting across a stretch of the ships. The radio suddenly blasted with an urgent feminine voice. Makhlouf swiftly tuned the dial, cranked up the volume, and a rapid volley of Darija spilled from the speaker. He grabbed the microphone, responding in kind with equal urgency, listened for a reply, and barked another command before slamming the mic back into its cradle and switching off the radio.

“We’ve got company. The Spaniards are out hunting with a Cutter!” he shouted, his maniacal grin slowly stretching across his face.

Banou felt a sudden heaviness in her chest, her earlier minuute optimism quickly draining away.

“Ten minutes!” he yelled as he veered the boat expertly away from the ship's port side and back into the shadows.

Ahead, the faint glow of Tarifa’s lighthouse loomed on the horizon. Makhlouf steered the boat slightly off course, maintaining speed.

Suddenly, a bloodthirsty slice of light pierced the darkness, and the Cutter’s searchlight illuminated the night. Without hesitation, Makhlouf killed their searchlight and swerved the boat to evade the blinding glare. Mapacha caught a brief glimpse of the racing Cutter, its sleek black hull marked with three stripes: red, yellow, red. The Spaniards.

“They have found us!” Makhlouf bellowed, rocking the boat further away from the Cutter’s path.

The Apeco bucked and writhed with wild, ferocious energy, tearing through the waves, with untamed defiance, then steadied as it surged towards Punta de la Peña. Mapacha reached for his revolver, while Banou, in the back, clung to the seat, her heart racing, regretting ever getting involved in this madness. After what felt like an eternity, Makhlouf slowed, waiting for the Cutter to close the gap.

“What are you doing?” Mapacha shouted over the roar of the engine.

“Wait, I will show you!” Makhlouf yelled back, his eyes locked on the pursuing Cutter.

They could now hear the strained hum of the Cutter’s twin General Motors engines closing in. As the warmth of its searchlight bathed them, a voice crackled over its hailer, demanding in Spanish that they stop.

“Now, we outrun them!” Makhlouf shouted, clearly enjoying the chase.

With a violent twist of the wheel, he tacked the Apeco hard to the right, twisted a small red knob, and throttled the engine up once more. The boat shot forward, lifting clear off the water as the Crusaders sprung to life. The Cutter was caught off guard, its engines roaring as it failed to keep pace with the change in situation. The Apeco narrowly skimmed past the Cutter, the two boats separated by mere inches.

The chase continued, but soon the Cutter, slow to turn back, began to dwindle into the distance. It took nearly two minutes before the Cutter was just a faint speck in the night. The Apeco shot past the lighthouse insolently.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Makhlouf laughed, his voice full of manic triumph.

He grabbed the microphone again and flicked it on. A voice crackled through the tiny speaker. Makhlouf barked rapid instructions, which were swiftly acknowledged. Mapacha and Banou turned back, watching the Cutter’s diminishing glow.

“Okay, when I shout ‘bail,’ you grab your bags and get off. Head for the beach, and my people will be there to pick you up. Understood?”

Banou stared at Makhlouf in disbelief.

“You expect us to jump from a moving boat?”

Makhlouf smiled, undaunted.

“No, I will stop. But only long enough for you to get off and the other two to get on.”

“The other two?” she asked, confused.

Makhlouf ignored her, his focus on the distant Cutter. He snapped into the microphone again, then blinked the searchlight twice. The boat crept toward the beach, the water shallowing beneath them. After a moment, they heard the scrape of the bottom against the sand.

“Aha! We are here! Welcome to España!” Makhlouf proclaimed proudly. “Now, bail!”

Mapacha scrambled to the edge but froze when a sharp, halting voice called from the shore.

“Boss, is that you?”

“Odria, get over here quick. The Coast Guard isn’t far behind,” Makhlouf replied.

He turned to face Mapacha and Banou.

“Bail!” he urged them.

Mapacha grabbed his duffel, set his foot on the boat’s edge, and jumped into the shallows. He turned to see Banou still standing frozen in the boat, staring at the dark figure approaching.

“Hey Banou, let us go.”

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing at the murky water.

“Go where? Into that muck?”

The figure reached the boat, and Makhlouf handed her Banou’s musette bag.

“Island girl, you have to go.”

Reluctantly, Banou jumped into the water. Mapacha grabbed her and half-dragged her toward the beach. Behind them, they heard a low whistle, then Makhlouf’s voice calling in French.

“Get them to Munich, okay?”

“Yes!” the woman shouted back in response.

As they reached the shore, they passed two figures sprinting for the boat. On dry land now, they watched as the figures quickly jumped in. A moment later, Makhlouf gunned the boat out into the open ocean, leaving them with Odria.

“Merde!” Odria swore. “This way, follow me. We need to get as far away from here as quickly as possible.”

Mapacha, duffel bag over his shoulder, half-jogged with Banou up a hill. At the crest, the silhouette of a car appeared. They rushed toward it. Banou was panting, but Mapacha kept moving. Odria pulled open the rear left door.

“Get inside,” she said, then slid into the driver’s seat. Mapacha climbed into the passenger side.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“First to Algeciras, then Marbella. We will rest there and head for Munich tomorrow.”

The engine of the Seat 124 roared to life, and they sped off, tires spinning in the sand before the found purchase, and tore down the road.

“How long to Algeciras?” Mapacha asked.

Odria kept her eyes on the road, her hands steady on the wheel.

“It is not far. About three-quarters of an hour.”

They reached the main road, the N-340, and Odria swerved right, and the car sped past small hamlets and towns. The tires crunched on the tarmac, and Banou, sitting in the back, relaxed slightly as the car’s speed settled. It took them 33 minutes before the lights of Algeciras appeared in the distance.

Though it was early morning, the city was awake, its houses clinging to the cliffs. Banou admired the view from the rear, but Mapacha noticed Odria’s revulsion.

“This is not a friendly city,” she muttered under her breath.

Banou, confused, asked, “Why?”

“This city was used to subjugate my countrymen,” Odria replied, whipping the wheel sharply left and weaving through the city.

“Europeans are terrible people,” she added, a bitterness creeping into her voice.

They passed the Los Arcos in Plaza Alta, and Odria eventually pulled up outside a small house in La Piñera. As the car engine shut off, the front door creaked open, then swung wide as a woman clad in a grey t-shirt and black pants emerged. She scanned the area before motioning them inside.

“Come with me.”

Odria quickly hopped out, grabbed Banou’s musette, and Mapacha followed, snatching his duffel. Banou hesitated, but eventually joined them. They hurried through the front door, down a narrow hallway into a spacious sitting room. From there, they went through to the backyard, where a Jungle Green Alfa Romeo Giulia Super was parked.

The woman handed Odria a key, and they exchanged a few words in Darija before Odria popped the boot and stuffed Banou’s musette inside. Mapacha added his own bag, and the boot slammed shut.

“Get inside. We need to leave,” Odria ordered.

Moments later, the engine of the Alfa rumbled to life. Odria steered them out of Algeciras and onto the road to Marbella. As they drove, Mapacha wondered about Makhlouf and the Cutter’s pursuit. He shook off the thought and settled into the car, watching Odria’s steady hands on the wheel.

The drive was smooth, even as the car sped through the darkness. They were stopped only once at a roadblock, where four weary policemen waved them through after a quick glance at the three bleary-eyed travellers. An hour and a half later, they arrived in Marbella.