Chapter 1: Marrakech

The minaret's shadow was short and distinct in the early afternoon sun. The blackness spread over the pavement obscuring a figure that staggered as if drunk as it dodged past a group of young women dressed in djalabas, their faces hidden under the hoods.

Of course, Hamid wasn't drunk. He'd not had a drop to drink, although this was something he intended to remedy fairly soon. But the conversation he'd just had with his brother had troubled him so much he might as well be drunk. Yet it was difficult for him to be sure exactly why it had affected him so radically.

He passed a beggar: a young woman with a small child in her lap. Instinctively, Hamid dipped into his jeans pocket to retrieve a dirham which he placed in her open palm. His mind was less on her expressions of gratitude than on his concerns about his brother, to whom he'd spoken so very rarely these last few years. He wasn't even sure where, or even from which continent, his brother had made his phone call.

It was bad enough that the conversation had to be at the post office and at a specific time whose convenience was in no way determined by Hamid's working hours at all. Hamid worked as a manager at their father's factory, so it was somewhat easier to get away. A day off today was scarcely the best timing, but when he'd received that postcard with the American stamp and postmark he had no choice but to cancel the meeting he'd arranged with the supplier and take an unscheduled day's leave. And that for three hours of sitting in a post office anxiously waiting for the call to come through. Typical that his brother was always late, not that he could afford the time to be angry with him in the few minutes they at last talked.

He turned the street corner to face the March sun glaring brilliantly ahead of him. He screwed up his eyes, regretting that he'd forgotten his sunglasses and very nearly bumped into a tourist walking in the opposite direction.

And what had that conversation consisted of? Praises of Allah and his greatness. Curses against Ariel Sharon and the Zionist oppression of the Palestinians. And curses in almost equal measure against the Great Satan, America, and its recently elected president.

So predictable and really rather unnecessary. It wasn't the sort of fanatical conversation Hamid had given up a day's work to have to hear.

And then, just before he put the phone down, his brother said, and Hamid believed him, that he would probably never see him again until their souls were counted, and that he, his brother, would very soon depart the world of mortal temptation. His death, he said, would be a glorious one whose impact would be felt forever.

And then, as if he had said too much already, and with no warning, the telephone connection was abruptly truncated.

Hamid passed by a café in whose window he could see Omar and two of his friends. Although he wasn't in the mood at just that time there was no way he could pretend not to have seen Omar's broad smile and his downward arm gestures to join him and his company. With more care than he usually took, Hamid composed his face into a broad smile and pushed open the plate glass door.

"Salam Allakum!" he greeted his friend.

"Allakum Salam!" Omar replied. "How're you? Taking a day off?"

"A good day for it," Hamid replied, pushing forward a seat to join Omar's company just inside the front door. The rich aroma of hash smoke was all he needed to guess why Omar hadn't chosen to sit out on the street where most of the café's clientele were gathered.

Omar's friend, Sadik, passed the joint to him under the table.

Hamid could hardly refuse. He accepted the proffered item and took a long toke while smiling at his already distinctly stoned companions. The rush of marijuana to the brain was not as welcome as it normally was, but it helped him to relax.

"Kif from the Rif," explained Omar's other friend. "Good stuff!"

"Allah be praised!" agreed Hamid with a grin, passing it on to Omar.

The four of them sat together in the shade of the café, surrounded by the sound of Algerian rai, while a television burbled, ignored, in the corner where a newscaster was detailing some atrocity or other that the Israelis had perpetrated in Palestine.

Hamid's mind was only superficially on the chatter that went on amongst his friends, happy that it was about nothing more than football, while his mind agitatedly replayed the details of his conversation with his brother.

Hamid certainly hoped that they'd meet somewhere less ethereal than the final judgment, but he was troubled by everything about those final words. Since his brother's departure on the Haj, and the occasion Hamid first met the new friends his brother had made on that pilgrimage, it was as if Hamid had acquired a new brother. One Hamid barely recognised as the brother with whom he had played games in the courtyard of their parents' home.

"You look thoughtful, Hamid," commented Omar. "Anything troubling you?"

"Nothing. Nothing," said Hamid, perhaps a little too hastily.

Omar leaned forward, letting his friends continue their blow-by-blow account of the weekend's match in the stadium.

"Don't be foolish, Hamid. I know you too well. I can see you're troubled. Is it Fatima?"

Fatima? Hamid's fiancée whom he was more and more sure he would never marry. He was thrown by the question into honesty.

"No. It's my brother. I've just been on the phone to him."

"Allah! I knew it! Where is he now? Is he still in Pakistan?"

"I don't know," Hamid said with uncertainty, but keeping his voice low. "He might be in Afghanistan. He might be back in Jeddah. He might even be in America."

"America?" piped in a stoned Sadik. "I've always wanted to go to America. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. And women with the biggest arses in the world!"

"There's no football in America," Omar reminded Sadik.

"The primitives!" Sadik exclaimed. "But the girls have still got good arses!"

Sadik returned to his conversation, noting the look of urgency on Omar's face.

"I always liked your brother, Hamid," Omar continued in a low voice. "But last time we met he was so weird. He's got Allah big time! He's not joined the Muslim brotherhood, has he?"

"I don't think so. It's another outfit. One based in Saudi Arabia. But it's got links with the Taliban."

"Allah!" Omar swore. "They give Islam a bad name. I heard they don't even allow music. And the women! You can't see their arses. You can't see their hair. You can't even see their faces!"

"Afghanistan's worse than Saudi Arabia. It gives me the shivers."

"So, is your brother a Talibani?"

"I don't think so."

"He doesn't shave. He doesn't drink. He dresses like some kind of peasant. And he's always going on about Allah. I mean, Allah be praised, I'm a Muslim. Although I don't go to the mosque, I observe Ramadan like the best of them. But there are limits, aren't there?"

"I don't understand it. My brother never used to be so devout. It was weird him even going on the Haj. I thought it was just because he liked the idea of being a Hajji. And now..."

"Have you spoken to him recently?"

"Just now."

"And how is he?"

"I don't know. I don't know," muttered Hamid in anguish. "I just wish he'd come home, leave all those fanatics behind, and take up his duties in my father's firm."

Hamid badly needed some air. The hit from the kif was probably not what he needed just now. He made his excuses and pushed open the door of the café, leaving the air-conditioned interior for the warm March air.

What he needed now was a drink.

And more than that, a woman. That would take his mind off things.

And where better to go than a tourist hotel bar where the higher quality whores worked? A bit more expensive than those in the medina, but well worth the extra few dirhams; though he knew he'd never have to pay as much as a tourist would for their services. Especially, the French, German and American tourists. They always had to pay that little bit more for a taste of North African sex.

Hamid wandered off, still staggering, but now with the excuse of a few well-inhaled tokes, glad that there was at least a mile to the Chems which was the only tourist hotel he was certain of both being allowed in and finding a woman who would sate his inappropriate lust.

Hassan, the doorman, greeted him like the old friend he was as Hamid sailed through the entrance into the plush reception area where several young Dutch tourists were struggling with their motley collection of suitcases. He waved an open palm at Khadija at the reception desk who was struggling to understand a Russian's complaint and strolled into the hotel bar, a huge room facing onto the hotel's swimming pool and next to various small boutiques selling carpets and the appalling tourist tack that no Moroccan would ever buy.

Hamid looked around him. Where were the whores?

The Chems had a fairly discreet policy with regards to prostitutes plying their trade at the hotel. As long as they were not obviously on the game and tipped the hotel staff generously, their presence, if not explicitly welcomed, was at least tolerated. In fact, only the most observant tourist would guess that the smartly dressed Moroccan women who looked more Western than Islamic were anything other than the hotel guests they pretended to be.

Normally Hamid would easily have spotted a Chems whore. She'd either be sitting by herself at the bar, seemingly bored but with eyes glancing about agitatedly, or she'd be sitting with her friends laughing and joking but still keeping an intent gaze on the comings and goings around her. Hamid could see two women who were almost certainly engaged in business, but he'd lost his opportunity. They were both laughing and giggling in the company of two very fat middle-aged German men.

Hamid sighed. Well, a drink would have to do. But at several times the price he would normally need to pay, he was rather peeved that this might after all end up as being all the Chems had on offer tonight.

He warmly greeted Ahmed, the barman, and ordered a bottle of expensive German lager. In the style of a Westerner, he accepted the bottle as it came with a slice of lime squeezed down its neck. Then he sat on the barstool, swivelled it round and surveyed the world about him.

His thoughts were beginning to sink back to the morass of worry about his brother, recalling again and again those final apocalyptic words, when he noticed, hidden behind the menu and cocktail list placed at the corner of the bar, a woman his brisk survey had earlier not taken in.

He stood up and strode towards her, pleased to see she was unaccompanied. She was older than him, perhaps in her early thirties, wearing only a one-piece swimsuit and smoking a recently lit cigarette balanced in an upturned hand at the end of a slim and lightly tanned arm.

He hesitated slightly before making his move. What language did she speak? Was she German? French? She certainly wasn't American. No American would seem so at ease sitting by herself. Perhaps she was Russian. They were such mysterious people, with a similar half-amused expression on their faces. And the women were famous for their enthusiastic sexuality, although having only once tasted foreign flesh, and that a slightly podgy Belgian girl he'd picked up at the Jemaa El Fna, he had nothing with which to confirm this theory.

When you don't know, try English. All foreigners speak English.

Fortunately English was a subject in which he'd excelled at the expensive private lycée he'd attended, so Hamid relished the opportunity to speak the language of the American R&B singers he enjoyed listening to.

Where to begin?

Hamid noticed an empty bottle of Stork just by her half full glass of beer. He smiled and caught the woman's eyes.

"I see you like our Moroccan beer," he remarked.

The woman started at being addressed by a stranger, but she quickly regained her composure. A supercilious smile returned to her reddened lips.

"Yeah. I'll try anything once."

Hamid stood next to her. He didn't recognise the accent, but he guessed she was English. Most of the least identifiable accents came from England.

"Have you tried any Moroccan wines? They really are excellent."

"I wouldn't say that, love. Most of the stuff I've drunk here has been distinctly unremarkable."

Hamid persisted. "Most tourists, especially English ones, don't realise what a great wine-growing country Morocco is."

The woman smiled again and brushed a hand through her light brown shoulder-length hair. She raised her cigarette to her mouth and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

"They say that when the French were here, they considered North African wine to be better than their own vintage."

"Well, it wasn't the shit I've had to drink they were talking about," she commented, flicking the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. "Are you hitting on me?"

Hamid blanched.

"Hitting on you? I don't understand."

"Don't act soft. You obviously speak good English. Are you hitting on me? In fact, that's a bloody stupid question, isn't it? You obviously are. You Moroccans are so fucking obvious."

Hamid was quite suddenly downhearted. This wasn't the sort of conversation he was hoping for. He looked down at his bottle of Heineken.

"Don't look so bashful, love. I don't mind, I really don't. Why don't you pull up a stool and don't be so fucking wet? I'm quite flattered really. You're not a gigolo, are you?"