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  The room they shared was lit with a single dull lamp that belonged in a basement, not a hotel room. There was a sagging bed in the middle of the room that had clearly been hastily straightened out. A single long pillow without a cover was perched on the bed, on top of a stained bedsheet. There was no way that sheet was getting clean, no matter what laundry detergent was used. The bathroom emitted a strong smell of something in between bleach and urine. A filthy curtain covered a tightly locked window that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

  Nezha sat down on the edge of the slightly damp bed. As she stretched out on her back a cockroach shot out from under the bed and climbed the curtain. Nezha hitched her dress up higher to reveal her beautiful ivory thighs. Her soft white skin exuded the youthfulness of her tight twenty-year-old body. Quite the opposite of her face, ruined by all the smoking, late nights, alcohol, and makeup. Hamadi studied her for a while, attempting to dismiss whatever was troubling him. Something didn’t feel right this time, and it was spoiling his mood. He looked at his watch. It was two thirty. He gazed at Nezha, but wasn’t turned on at all. She sensed his boredom and began shifting around on the bed, posing in different erotic positions, copying what she had seen in pornos.

  Nezha’s antics didn’t do much for Hamadi. What got him going was moaning coming from the bed in the room next door. There were shrieks, gasps, delirious laughter, and other sex noises. In a heartbeat he stripped off his clothes and lay back on the bed. That was really all he had to do, since Nezha was determined that tonight she would help him reach a new horizon of pleasure. She was hoping to fulfill his desires twofold, in hopes that he would be more generous, so she could pay Farqash. Merely the thought of Farqash filled her with dread; she remembered his vile spit in the back of her throat. She refocused, trying to lose herself in lust with Hamadi. This customer could be her savior with his generosity.

  She straddled him and began to dance above him, whipping him with her hair and driving him crazy. She started massaging his ruddy, flabby skin, and he moaned as she sucked him off. Every movement she made reflected her total absorption in the task, and Hamadi felt he was going to pass out from pleasure. They were naked on the bed as she embraced him, drew him in, licked him, and teased him with her tongue. She kissed him passionately all over his body, doing everything in her power to keep him erect. Hamadi’s weakness was that his interest would wane halfway through.

  She had slept with all types of men, and in the process had liberated herself from feelings of shame, disgust, or superiority. Nezha undertook her work with complete professionalism, and even took satisfaction in doing it well.

  Hamadi was overwhelmed, and began moaning and speaking deliriously. Unable to process anything, he simply let out a shriek, like a calf being slaughtered.

  Nezha lay beside him, still sweating. He turned toward her and began showering her with compliments. To his weary eyes she seemed so full of life. He was seized by an intense jealousy when he thought about her doing the same thing, with the same vigor, with other men. She lay there, thinking about opening up and telling him everything—divulging the details of her problems with Farqash. She thought about bringing up even more intimate things—her mother’s illness and brother’s unemployment—as a way to tug on his heartstrings, in hopes that he would be more generous with her than last time. But if she started along this path she knew he would withdraw from her, and retreat into a deep slumber.

  She lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke as she listened to the far-off moans, creaking beds, and other exclamations of love from the other rooms. She found consolation in taking deep drags from her cigarette and blowing out the smoke. This old man, after a long night, saw nothing but a cheap body he craved for an evening, and that was it.

  For the first time ever she imagined her fingers sneaking toward his wallet, which was peeking out of the pocket of the pants tossed on the chair. If she found the cash to free her from her problems she would steal it. She hesitated, and just as she started to creep off the bed she heard the sounds of boots climbing the stairs. She heard knocking on one door after another and voices in the hallway yelled “Police! Police!” Had they come to arrest her just because she’d thought about stealing?

  Nezha held her breath. Hamadi opened his eyes, his thoughts racing, and he began scanning the room. They both froze, still naked, waiting for what was to come.

  There were two light knocks on the door, as if room service were making an inquiry.

  “This is Detective Hanash. Open the door,” said a calm voice.

  Shaking, his legs barely able to support him, Hamadi hastily got dressed. He zipped up his fly, on the verge of collapsing.

  2

  Detective Hanash was in his fifties, and only a few years from retirement. Everything about him suggested a man who had spent a lifetime interrogating criminals, studying murderers, and unraveling clues to crimes. This was how he got the nickname “Hanash,” which meant “snake.” His real name was Mohamed Bineesa. He would change character by “shedding his skin” and then “strike” his prey. Those who met Detective Hanash for the first time immediately got a sense of his strange personality, and those who had met him on multiple occasions tended to find him quite unpleasant. He was tall and slender, but had a smallish head that was always tilted toward his left shoulder. He had beady eyes without eyelashes that cast a confrontational expression. With a furrowed brow, he would stare sharply at his interlocutor with a suspicious and probing glare, as if he were searching for an accusation to pin on him. He had acquired this behavior from the excessive amount of time he spent with criminals. Even in his personal life he was incapable of relinquishing these mannerisms. He always seemed distracted and preoccupied by his thoughts. He never expressed interest in what others said. Nonetheless, everyone attested to his intelligence and total devotion to his work.

  After so many years together, his wife, Naeema, had become a carbon copy of him—she was headstrong and extremely suspicious. Her demeanor never changed, no matter how much makeup she put on. She had dreamed of being blonde, but she was a brunette with darker skin. She had a deep, hoarse voice, and words seemed to rattle around in her throat. Despite these attributes, Hanash considered himself lucky. She was the ideal wife for someone in his profession.

  In addition to being a skilled housewife, Naeema had learned a tremendous amount from her husband—in particular, his investigative techniques. She was aware of everything that transpired in the neighborhood; nothing got by her. Her speech was circuitous, and she would never reveal her true intentions. When chatting with someone her eyes would shift instinctively, as if any opinion she didn’t share was dead wrong, or as if the speaker was lying. She considered even the most trifling family details crucial, and she had loyal informants—starting with the maid. She could thread together a scattered story from loose ends. She would trim any unnecessary details until she formed a crystal-clear picture. She would extract lively stories from her neighbors’ chatter and gossip and then report them to her husband when he returned at night. He would feign interest to humor her, acting as if everything she told him was crucial to his own work. Sometimes he would even jot down something she said to make her feel like her intel was vital. She didn’t really care if he believed her or considered her a gossip queen; what was crucial was that he didn’t interrupt her, never appeared to tire of her, and showed surprise at the right moment. He would even ask about the sources of her information, and then charge her with pursuing her investigations further.

  Naeema was an accomplished cook—her skill in the kitchen was unparalleled. She was always up early, rain or shine, to start her day in the kitchen. Listening to traditional music, she would prepare breakfast with finesse and concentration. As soon as the family left the house in the morning and the maid began cleaning and dusting, she would dive into preparations for the next meal with equal relish. She would pop in another CD, turning the volume all the way up, taking advantage of the empty house.

  Of course, Ha
nash rarely returned for lunch, and so she would engage in some detective work of her own—covertly questioning one of his assistants in the hope of confirming if he would be home. If he wasn’t, she would prepare a meal, even a traditional tagine dish, and pack it up like one of those prepared meals from a restaurant. Despite this, there was little intimacy in her relationship with her husband. It had been years since Hanash had demonstrated the type of passion they had previously shared. He used to take her by surprise in the bedroom even before he had time to take off his police uniform and disarm. In thinking about their passion-filled past, Naeema couldn’t help but think how her current situation simply didn’t compare.

  Hanash had lost his desire for his wife and had been avoiding her for some time now—and she knew it. She chalked this up to his constant preoccupation with murderers, criminals, and other derelicts. The problem was, he was more distracted from her than ever before. Criminal activity had increased over the past years, due to rising unemployment, violence, terrorism, and access to the Internet, which helped in the globalization of criminality.

  Outside of the bedroom, however, her married life was great. She lacked nothing. Her husband even gave her control over the family’s financial matters, placing piles of cash in her care, never even counting it. He would give her unexpected gifts, though they were things that had been given to him. He never bought anything—everything he wanted was given to him for free—he just picked up the phone and ordered. He always had her back when she had disagreements with the kids, regardless of whether she was right or wrong. He only asked for one thing in exchange for all this—that she not cast so much as a speck of doubt on his relationships outside the home, which included not asking him about the women whom he greeted on the street, mentioned in passing, or whose names popped up on his phone.

  Hanash’s home was a villa from the French colonial period—a time when villas were luxurious, with high ceilings, spacious rooms, sweeping balconies, and lush gardens. As of late, high-rises had been creeping closer to this neighborhood on one side, and a single villa was now worth ten million dirhams, if not more. Hanash had taken notice of this trend, and with a bit of meddling here and there, he was successful in transferring the villa from governmental ownership to his own personal possession. A huge sum no doubt awaited him if he ever thought about selling.

  Hanash and Naeema had a son and two daughters. Manar was twenty-five and couldn’t exactly be described as beautiful or ugly. From her father she had inherited an unsettling smile, beady eyes, and olive skin. Manar hadn’t completed her studies, and in place of going to university she got a certificate in hairdressing. She opened up a salon that her father was able to rent for her at an extremely reasonable price through his connections. He outfitted it with all the best equipment, and her clients took to calling her salon “The Commissioner’s Daughter.”

  Tarek was the youngest in the family. He was in his second year of university, studying law. His aim was to pass the police academy exam after he got his law degree.

  Atiqa, their second daughter, was the only sibling who had inherited her grandparents’ good looks. She had men swooning over her and asking to marry her before she even turned twenty. Despite her father’s urging, she did not complete her studies, but instead fell in love with the young man who became her husband. He was serious and handsome. He got a degree in accounting, and then went on to find a good job in the Marrakesh tax administration. Atiqa had been determined to marry him and refused to listen to opposing viewpoints. It had been impossible to dissuade her. So, in the end, her father gave in. He conceded to himself that the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree when it came to Atiqa and his wife—both were content as housewives.

  Before transferring to his current job in Casablanca, Hanash had completed an impressive stint in Tangier as the head of the criminal investigation unit focused on drug trafficking. It was a real golden age for Detective Hanash, during which he amassed both wealth and experience. His infallible police instincts led to his involvement in the Grand Campaign, which resulted in the imprisonment of some of the country’s biggest hash barons, along with other crooks from the government’s security apparatus. They included stubborn politicians and stingy businessmen, who were arrested either because they hadn’t handed over their kickbacks or because their competitors wanted to take over their positions and business interests. Any charge of involvement in drug production or trafficking could land a suspect in prison for years.

  The fame that Detective Hanash achieved in Tangier through his leading role in the Grand Campaign preceded him, to the present day. He became a national hero in combating drug trafficking. Of course, the campaign went down with the cooperation of certain higher-ups, who made millions from the hash industry in Tangier. They knew about the operation against the hash barons well in advance. In fact, they had prepared a blacklist for Hanash, which included the names of anyone who couldn’t pay up, or who just needed to be eliminated.

  This campaign followed on the heels of intense lobbying by European nations, which accused the Moroccan government of being lenient toward the drug organizations. Several reports had been published in the foreign press that labeled Morocco “Africa’s Colombia” and singled out several prominent officials for accepting bribes and being involved with the international drug mafia. A few Spanish papers claimed that hash brought billions of euros to Morocco—more than all other foreign exports combined. The straw that broke the camel’s back was an intense campaign by a Spanish lobby that aimed to pressure Morocco into reducing its fishing yield and agricultural exports in the European market. The government saw no other way to appease Spain than carrying out this campaign. Prior to the operation, necessary measures were taken to protect the fat cats. And it was none other than Detective Hanash—Tangier’s top investigator at the time—who oversaw all these preparations.

  Just a few weeks prior to the start of the campaign, Hanash submitted a list to his bosses that included the names of drug dealers who would take the fall, as well as the members of the security apparatus and businessmen connected to them, who would also be charged. After the well-publicized trials and delivery of the sentences—many for decades of imprisonment—the press declared Detective Hanash a hero, and he was quickly appointed head of criminal investigations in Casablanca.

  Detective Hanash’s big score in the Grand Campaign in Tangier, however, was his beloved mistress, Bushra al-Rifiya. Her husband Mohamed, nicknamed al-Sabliyuni meaning ‘the Spaniard,’ had been abducted by a gang that insisted that she not notify the police. She did the exact opposite, and called Detective Hanash.

  When she entered his office that morning, he knew right away that she was the wife of either a high-caliber drug dealer or a shady businessman. She was clearly the type of woman who played with fire. Hanash couldn’t get any words out at first, and he could feel his heart start to race. It was a warm morning, void of the easterly wind common in Tangier. Hanash was used to dealing with beautiful women, since the city swarmed with gorgeous women of the north who had Andalusian roots. But Bushra was something else altogether. She had a mesmerizing smile, an elegant nose seemingly carved from marble, and warm honey-colored eyes that you could never get enough of. He guessed that she was in her mid-thirties.

  He extended his hand and asked her to have a seat.

  What would bring a woman like this to the office of the drug cartels’ number-one enemy?

  “Yes, ma’am. What can I help you with?” he asked, trying his best to maintain an authoritative tone.

  She stared at him with unexpected calm. “Are you . . . Detective Hanash?” she asked.

  He looked around as if she were referring to someone else and then took a moment to scrutinize her. “My real name is Bineesa,” he said finally, “but if you know who it was who first called me Hanash, I want to bring him to justice! And you? Who are you? And how did you get into my office?”

  “I bribed the guard,” she said casually, gesturing toward the door.
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br />   Hanash leaned back in his leather swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, and looked at her carefully. He was starting to have serious doubts—was this a ruse? Her smile, self-assuredness, and calm were indicative of a woman who was used to all the chips falling in her favor. On top of that, her devastating beauty gave her a confidence he had never seen before. She was calm and collected, knowing in advance that she would always receive a warm welcome.

  “May I have the pleasure of knowing with whom I’m speaking?”

  “My name is Bushra al-Rifiya,” she said, staring at him as if it were a test. “I was living with my husband in Spain, and we settled here in Tangier not too long ago.”

  Hanash smiled to himself even before she ended her sentence. This was what he had thought all along. He extended his hand to shake hers again, this time sincerely. She blushed and her heart raced as she wondered if he knew why she had come. She hesitated, but it was too late.

  “I’m all ears. What can I do for you?” he asked gently, leaning in and giving her his full attention.

  She paused. She hadn’t expected such a receptive audience and needed to compose herself and calculate her next move. She wasn’t prepared to share all of the details at once. She wanted to reel him in slowly. Her plan was to offer a few hints about her circumstances and then suggest that a meeting outside of the office would yield a greater reward. She shook her head a couple of times, as though she’d forgotten why she had come in the first place. Hanash cracked a smile. He knew he had her in his grasp. The snake was ready to strike. He stood up and walked over to his closed office door.

  “You can tell me whatever you want. No one can hear you behind this door!” he boomed, emphasizing his point that her secrets would be safe inside these walls.