Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 5
21st July 2024
Her coyness blistered on. She started with the facts.
“Mapacha, listen, for some odd reason, this job feels important. Gwafa wanted to join us, but he’s on a diplomatic mission, and the old man is in Dakar with his wife. So, it’s just down to the two of us. We go to Europe, do the job, and we’re back in maybe a week. . . two tops.”
Then she buttered him up expertly.
“Come on, Mapacha, you know 'we' can do it.”
Her emphasis on 'we' was the pièce de résistance. A masterful act.
His eyes wandered to the open beach, where the angry surf swelled under the dusk sky. The low chairs, which he had since demolished and rebuilt, were set near the beach, a perfect spot for such a conversation. Silence lingered between them, only broken by the soft clink of glass as Abril approached with two glasses of juice. Neve, content with her bone, lay beside Mapacha, and gave Abril a momentary glance before returning to her bone. Abril quietly laid the glasses down and retreated without a word.
“Is it because you have feelings for Makhlouf?”
Banou's anger bubbled up from her depths, and she struggled to contain it. Mapacha had seen her blush in Morocco when they encountered Makhlouf.
“No!”
Her tone was languid, betraying her inner turmoil. She doubted herself momentarily, felt foolish, and then moved on to a more desperate strategy.
“So, you and Abril are making a real go of things?”
Mapacha realised he had struck a nerve and knew Banou would retaliate. Her attempt at a jab wasn't her best effort, so he side-eyed her dryly, picked up a joint from the chair’s armrest, and lit it.
Unthinkingly, she reached into her brown straw-woven bag, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it. Since Morocco, she had found she could smoke with Mapacha. Although she might have wanted to smoke a joint with him, she knew Abril would protest later, and more importantly, she needed a clear head.
Mapacha took little puffs of smoke, as he weighed Banou's proposal.
“Let’s say we do this. What makes you believe we’ll be successful? How do we know we won’t face an army or who knows what in some unnamed country? Banou, we don’t even look like Europeans. We just can’t blend in.”
Damn, Mapacha and his logic.
These were concerns she hadn’t considered, and she couldn’t lie to him. Her only choice was to be defensive.
“Mapacha, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know the full scale of the job, just that we’re supposed to 'get' something and get paid for it.”
“And assuming you get all that fixed, Banou, you know I don’t trust the Moroccans. You need more information, at the very least.”
Her senses told her she had struck pay dirt. They sat under the darkening sky, silenced by the waves crashing against the beach, as Neve growled and gnawed at her bone. While her mind searched for the best words to firm up the situation, Mapacha found his resolution.
“I’m unconvinced by the job, but I trust you, and you seem convinced. If we know more, then we can see if we can do it. Speak to Makhlouf, and ask him for more information. Tell him we need it to decide. I want to at least know where I’m going.”
She took a furious puff on the last of her cigarette to cover her broad smile. His serious demeanour didn’t need her happiness. She needed to be serious. He had just handed her the fragile lifeline she desperately needed.
“OK, Mapacha, I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Good. Do you still have your equipment?”
“Yes, it’s at home.”
It was. Every night, as Banou slept, one thought gnawed at her: the gun was right there, on top of the wardrobe, in a shoebox, glaring at her like a scarred Cyclops. Some nights, she took it out and slept with it under her pillow. It had been a struggle at first, but as much as she hated it, the Model 49 made her feel safe.
“Good. Have you been keeping up with your practice?”
“No.”
Mapacha sipped his juice, as weariness crept into his voice.
“You’ve built a lovely house. The location is perfect. I hope you and Abril are happy here.”
“Thanks.”
Abril served them more juice, and when Banou finished, she walked up the beaten path to the road and found the driver snoozing in the front seat. She silently slipped into the back seat and closed the door, and this jarred him awake. He was surprised.
“Eh, madam. . .”
“Barra,” she instructed.
He let the clutch in and slipped it into second gear. As the car rolled downwards, gathering speed, he popped the clutch and the engine coughed to life. He did a U-turn, and the Peugeot sped towards Barra.
**
Banou competed with dawn that morning. The taxi picked her up early, and she was the first to her shop. She instructed the driver to wait, let herself in, and sat in her office with the phone headset in hand. So enthusiastic was she that the sleepy phone operator seemed surprised. With her patience on edge, she fired off her instructions and hung up. Ten minutes later, the phone rang, and she snatched it off the cradle. Makhlouf's deep and husky voice carried over the phone, exciting her for a moment before she let the whole thing go.
“Salaam. . .”
She cut him off.
“Hey, Makhlouf, it’s Banou.”
“Oh, hey island girl, how are you . . .”
She cut him off again.
“No time for that.”
She felt cruel and crude.
“Can the job be done by two people?”
He paused and then cautiously cleared his throat.
“Can I talk?”
“Yes.”
“Well I had planned for the whole team, but two could work too. It’s not a heavy object, but there is a possibility you will need some tools.”
“What sort of tools?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll provide everything.”
Banou was confused but let it go.
“Well, we are only two for this job.”
“Including you?”
“What do you mean including me? I created this crew, you know. I am capable.”
She heard Makhlouf stifle a laugh.
“I am not doubting your ability, island girl. So, it is you and your psycho guy?”
“What? We do not have a psycho in our crew. Why are you wasting my time? I have other things to do.”
He sensed her frustration.
“OK. I will take what I get. The stake is the same.”
“Where is the job?”
“I will tell you when you get here.”
“No, Makhlouf. You will tell me now!”
He hesitated.
“Munich.”
“Munich? West Germany?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious? You know we don’t exactly fit in.”
“That won’t be a problem on this job.”
“OK. When are we supposed to start?”
“As soon as possible.”
“OK. We need to organise plane tickets, then we will let you know.”
“Wait, I thought you guys had a plane. The plane plays an important role in this plan.”
“We have a plane, but it’s on another job.”
“You guys are busy. Well, this is a problem. I can’t have you guys walk in through the 'front door'; you have to come in unannounced.”
“This is why I am mad at you, Makhlouf. I worked hard to get it together, and then you gave me the most crucial details after the fact. How am I supposed to get a plane now?”
“Well, I figured you guys were all coming in as a crew, so the plane issue would not be an issue.”
“Assuming we get a plane, where is it supposed to land, seeing that we can’t land at the airport?”
“I have a private airstrip. If your pilot is as skilled as I think he is, he can get it in there easily. We’ll have fuel for the return trip and everything else he needs, and I will arrange for nobody to know he’s here.”
“Você é um verdadeiro merda, Makhlouf, sabia? (You are a real piece of shit, Makhlouf, you know that?)”
He went silent.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Nothing!”
She hung up on him. That was the last straw. This job no longer felt worth it. For ten minutes, she sat and rubbed her temple, and let the anger wash over her. When she felt better, she jumped out, got into the taxi, and sat for a moment. The taxi driver sensed her agitation but chose to remain quiet. Finally, with her thoughts gathered, she issued a new instruction.
“Sombra.”
“Yes, madam.”
She was going to pull this off somehow.