Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 8
3rd December 2024
In this instance, Makhlouf’s vanity was not subtle; it was loud, like his Mercedes 300 SEL. The beast under its hood, a snarling 6.3-litre V8, had more muscle than grace, yet he tamed it with an unnerving precision. He tore through the spiny roads leading towards Tetouan as if the night itself were chasing him. The dawn was close—cracks of light slicing through the bruised sky—but he intended to outrun it, the steering wheel twisting in his hands with the grace of a ballerina.
Ahead, the 'White Dove' rose, perched like a crown over the chaotic city beneath. His Tetouan was no haven; it was an enclave poisoned by spellbound myths, where truth and deception wove tighter knots than any tale. Crime didn’t hide here; it strutted with sophistication, wrapped in the finest silks of subtlety. The Firestone tyres screamed as they kissed the Rue de la Liberté, and Tetouan unveiled itself to them, like a reluctant lover stepping out of the shadows.
The street lamps lit up the city's secrets, casting long shadows across the ornate doorways, the baroque tilework glittering with history. These were not streets; they were veins of a place torn between two worlds—one foot still rooted in the timeworn traditions of the elders, while the other reached desperately towards modernity, dragged forward by the ambitions of the young and the ruthless. It was this clash that gave Tetouan its scars, each alley a reminder that the past and present were locked in a ceaseless battle.
But neither Banou nor Mapacha knew just how close they were to this razor’s edge. They were passengers in more ways than one, unaware that their path was carved in the same stone that had sliced so many before them. Makhlouf despite his potrayal of loud vanity, played his hand quietly, crafting his own game of deceit. The web of lies he spun was intricate, delicate—one wrong move, one wrong word, and it could all come crashing down. He lived on the edge of destruction daily. That was the game, the one he had mastered: whispered rumours, double-crosses, and the occasional fatal betrayal.
Makhlouf, for all his charm, was part of this dangerous underworld—his web of secrets as intricate as the winding streets of Tetouan, and just as dangerous to navigate. The treachery of men like Diae, who crossed his associates, was always paid for, though Makhlouf rarely left any sign of his hand in the matter.
But Tetouan soon vanished in the rearview mirror, replaced by the wide, empty roads stretching north. Nearly twenty minutes later, they arrived in a smaller, quieter town. The car slowed as they reached a set of gates, where a shrouded figure opened them at Makhlouf's signal. The Mercedes crept down a narrow lane, revealing a stately riad. The building was a marriage of Mediterranean and Arab design—a stone villa with whitewashed walls, wooden beams on the upper levels, and a covered rooftop. The wings of the house stretched out, framing a lush garden that led towards the beach.
"Welcome to M'diq," Makhlouf announced, with a flourish.
"M'diq?" Banou repeated, confused.
"The town, not the house," Makhlouf chuckled. "It’s quieter here. More private. Tetouan has too many eyes, too many ears. This is where we can talk, away from all of that."
Mapacha, ever cautious, silently watched the exchange. He was impressed by Makhlouf’s empire—the wealth, the power, the ability to bend the world around him. But that pride, Mapacha could see, carried a heavy burden. Makhlouf lived a life of constant tension, as if one wrong move could topple everything. His smooth words and quick reassurances did little to dispel the sense that they were all walking into something far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
Makhlouf, noticing Mapacha’s silence, leaned in slightly.
"Relax, Mapacha," he said softly. "Diae got what he deserved. His kind of betrayal will not happen again."
The air quotes around 'deserved' did nothing to ease Mapacha’s mind. He could picture Diae at the bottom of the Strait of Gibraltar, or fodder for the desert wilds. A low grunt of acknowledgment was all he could muster.
"This way," Makhlouf said, leading them towards the house. "Your luggage will be brought in."
They followed, Mapacha tense as he noticed the silent, robed figures moving in the shadows. He was not sure if they were women or something else entirely. His mind raced. Were they a threat? Could he take them if it came to that?
Inside, the riad opened up into a low-ceilinged sitting room filled with rich Moroccan furnishings—intricate wooden carvings, deep cushions, and patterned rugs.
"Make yourselves comfortable," Makhlouf said, gesturing towards the cushions.
One of the figures flung open the wide glass doors facing the ocean, letting in the salty breeze that cooled the room.
Under Makhlouf’s orders, tables were laid out and food appeared—plates of olives, eggplant dips, couscous, and steaming chicken tagine. A kettle of mint tea steamed beside glass mugs, filling the air with its refreshing scent. Banou, her eyes wide, was lost in the decadence of the moment, making mental notes for Nsia. Mapacha, however, was less impressed by the meal and more focused on the subtle power plays happening around him.
Makhlouf, enjoying the attention, began regaling them with stories—how he had risen to power in Morocco, the challenges he had overcome. Banou asked the occasional question, feeding his ego, while Mapacha stayed mostly quiet, sipping tea and observing. He could sense the game, but he was not sure what part they were supposed to play in it. As the evening wore on, fatigue settled over them.
"You have had a long day," Makhlouf said finally, sensing their weariness. "The ladies will show you to your rooms. Tomorrow, we will discuss the plan."
Mapacha, though still wary of how little had been revealed, knew better than to push it now. They were led out to two adjoining studio apartments that faced the garden. Banou entered her room, modern and comfortable, and shut the door behind her. Mapacha followed suit, taking in the simple but well-appointed space. His bag was already placed neatly beside the bed.
He unpacked methodically, placing his clothes in the wardrobe, his gun under the pillow. His mind raced as he prepared for bed—Makhlouf’s empire, Banou’s starry-eyed fascination with it all, the plan they had not yet discussed. Exhausted, he finally sank into the oversized bed, his hand resting lightly on the pillow where his revolver lay hidden.
Sleep came quickly, but only for a while.
**
The crash of waves pulled him from a restless slumber. Mapacha sat up, staring into the darkness, the weight of the situation pressing in on him. This was no vacation—Makhlouf’s charm and opulence only masked the danger they were in. They were walking into something far more sinister, and Banou was too enthralled by the exotic allure of it all to see it.
He replayed his conversation with Mzee Tembo in his head, the awkwardness of asking for a few days off hanging over him. He feared that decision would come back to haunt him. Unable to sleep, he reached into the drawer and pulled out his snuff box. Rolling a joint, he leaned against the window and smoked, watching the horizon where the sea met the sky.
Finally, sleep claimed him again, the haze of smoke drifting out into the night.