LITMIR.BIZ

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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, Hanash 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

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