Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 2

2nd June 2024

The hour crept on with torturous slowness, and each minute stretched into what felt like an eternity. As Banou sat with her manicured fingers catwalking the magazine, her patience frayed at the edges, until at long last, the shrill, piercing ring of the phone shredded the last string. She attempted to gather herself and realised her composure was fictional at best. Hesitantly, she answered the phone and heard the enthusiastic operator who sounded almost relieved to connect the call.

"Hallo! Hallo!"

Banou's heart did a jitterbug at the sound of the deep, anxious, booming voice she had longed for. She fevered instantly. The entire ensemble of her prurience assembled. Her mind conjured images of his rugged, thick beard, his olive Berber tone that made him wolfishly exotic, the scent of Moroccan tobacco intermingling with the heady aroma of his smokey coffee breath... but she quickly wrestled her mind back from that juvenile mirage.

"Yeah, who is this?"

The voice, though familiar, appeared tense.

Pause.

"Banou."

Another pause.

"Island girl? How are you doing?"

Yet another pause. International calls were such a pain. Banou gritted her teeth as the feeling of frustration welled up within her. There was already sufficient internal conflict within her damp chasm, and the added frustration was not what she needed.

"Yes, I am fine, Makhlouf. I got your telegram."

Another pause. It acutely grated on her.

"Yes, Banou, I wanted to talk to you. I have a favour to ask. Can I hire you and your people to do a job for me?"

She gasped at the thought, taken aback by his question and the frankness of it. Whatever flight of fancy she had for Makhlouf, it dashed and sank somewhere in the Atlantic.

"What? What do you mean? What people?"

"Your crew. The old man, that French pilot guy, and the other psycho guy."

A dry chuckle escaped her throat and made its way to Tangier. If Makhlouf ever called Mapacha a psycho to his face, Mapacha would have no choice but to tear through him.

"How do you know about him?"

"Well, he battered Diae, who has still not quite recovered, and he kept saying the devil beat him up. Then I heard about the shoot-out, and one of the doctors told me about the other guys you shot and that one of your guys beat them up single-handedly. Also, I know where the diamonds came from in Côte d'Ivoire, and I know the whole story, which is why I am calling you."

The hairs on the back of her neck erected, and she tread carefully.

"Makhlouf, is this about revenge? Extortion? Is this a trap?"

He was alert and sensed her misgivings.

"Oh no. I do not care about all that. We all made out well on that deal. Diae betrayed you and by extension, me, and I have half a mind to deposit him in the Strait, except my sister, his mother, would never forgive me. No, this is a small personal job for me."

Diae was related to Makhlouf? That revelation caught her off guard. Back to business.

"OK. What is the job and what is in it for me?"

Her greed bore its gnashing teeth.

"You mean your people? One million dollars. Cash. No questions asked."

She pursed her lips. The rustle of his beard against the telephone handset reignited a volatile tingle within her. Despite the anarchy she was struggling against, she noted that he had avoided saying what they were expected to do.

"And the job is in Morocco?"

"No. Europe. But that is a different story."

A complication, and this one surprised her. Her body was parched from the maze of emotions he was thrusting it through.

"You want us to go to work in Europe? Makhlouf, you have a whole crew that works for you in Europe. Why us?"

"It is a sensitive job, and I need to outsource it. The nature of the job is really of no material interest to you, in terms of objectives."

Her mind writhed through various mental acrobatics, and she could not fathom one thing, so she asserted an essential question.

"What sort of job is this, Makhlouf?"

He wavered. She felt it. He knew they were not going to go further with the scant information he had paraded, so his only choice was to break it out.

"I want you to get something of mine that was stolen from me."

"You know who has it?"

"Yes, I have a rough idea. I even know where to find him."

So why ask her? She knew the answer, but she needed confirmation. Of course, Mzee Tembo would have turned him down straight off, as would Gwafa, and Mapacha would have wrung his neck over the telephone, which made her, in this case, the most susceptible to temptation, and ultimately, to him. She veered left.

"Makhlouf, you can do this job yourself, you know this, right?"

"Like I said, it needs outsiders."

He had pointed that out. She zoomed to the hook.

"One million, you said?"

"Island girl, you know I am good for the money. Talk to your people and call me back. I will wait every day for your phone call at 11:00 AM. OK?"

"Fine. Fine. I will talk to them. But this better be a good job. I do not want to do something that will get us in trouble."

"It will be easy. Trust me."

Could she? She knew the others would not. Before he could continue, Banou dropped the receiver and leaned back on her throne. She realized her fingers were itching. The prospect of more money. Like Madam Sudi with the carpet, all rational thought escaped Banou's sphere. Excitement welled inside her. That and the shame that accompanied it. In that moment, without much fanfare, she admitted to herself what she had long suspected. The thrill of crime was unbeatable, and she missed it. Being stuck in a tin can aircraft with the unlikely company of ex-military lunatics flying off abroad to commit the unthinkable was tremendously exciting. She wanted a break from this humdrum dressmaking business. Her mind told her the next person she needed to talk to.

"Mapacha," she whispered to herself.

Part 3