So apart from the staff, and the odd stream of girls looking for a good time, paid or not, the residence was a man’s world. They spoke in turn, discussing the problems they faced moving their products around Europe. It was an intricate process, but one that had developed over years of staying one step ahead of Interpol, who’d taken it upon themselves to wage full scale war on drug trafficking since 2013. The mission was called Operation Lionfish, and it was clear to see on the Interpol website. Their aim was ceaselessly seeking out traffickers on land, air and sea. Staying ahead of Lionfish was a major concern for anyone using the porosity of international borders to grow, manufacture, courier, supply and deal anything deemed illegal in the eyes of international authorities.
‘Why is the Tangier route so hot right now?’ one guest asked.
‘So is Algiers to Marseilles off the table?’ another added. They were serious questions and Fawaz acknowledged them by gesturing his hand, indicating that everything was under control.
‘Brothers, you all worry too much,’ he said.
Crossing the Mediterranean was a fundamental part of supplying into Europe, and they had to come up with more and more ingenious ways to evade the authorities. Fawaz had started out in cannabis, as it was the preferred drug of choice in Europe, but later, as he found routes out of Pakistan and Afghanistan, he was able to tap into the larger heroin market in the US. He also discovered new trading partners. Logistically, as soon as they found one reliable method of transportation, they were caught up fairly quickly by their pursuers, and so they found another, and another way around, and so it went, never quite slowing enough to be caught by the international authorities so keen to see his empire fall.
But the noose was tightening, and that’s why he’d approached his old friend for help. Not to transport drugs, he would never ask Khalil to do that, but on another matter entirely. Everybody visiting Fawaz tonight knew that it wasn’t so much that Khalil Dalmani had said no, but it was more the way he’d done it. He’d been condescending to Fawaz and his pride was ruptured by it. Fawaz had never seen it coming.
Fawaz looked at them and they waited. He stood and walked to a maid holding a tray, taking a fruit juice from it.
‘Nothing is off the table,’ Fawaz added. The men looked at one another and Fawaz smiled. ‘It’s very much on.’
‘But how?’
‘I have something that Khalil Dalmani wants,’ Fawaz said. ‘It’s very precious to him. In fact, it’s more precious than any of his trading deals, his tankers, his oil or his pipeline with the Americans.’
Smiles spread across the faces of those present as they learned their plans could go ahead.
‘So we could be up and running again as normal by when?’ The man who asked was a patriarch who supplied his boys to Fawaz as anything from couriers, to guards, or speedboat drivers. It was a family affair and everybody got involved. That was everybody apart from Fawaz’s children, because he’d made that mistake once before. And now Rafik was dead.
As such, unlike Khalil Dalmani, Fawaz did not have an Achilles heel. He couldn’t be bribed and he couldn’t be threatened, and that was his ace card. He had nothing left to lose. He’d made sure of it.
‘How did Madrid go?’ another associate asked.
‘Better than expected. The software is tricky but there are plenty of computer experts willing to work for the right price – all we need to do is supply the components on time. And now we can use the Algiers to Marseilles route.’
‘Come on, Fawaz, what have you done?’
For once, Fawaz actually smiled, and those in his company noted it as a very good sign indeed. It meant they could relax a little and perhaps enjoy some of the services on offer, courtesy of their host. But, though his smile was genuine, nobody knew the true reason behind his victory grin. Fawaz held the loyalty of those surrounding him but he hadn’t been totally transparent with them. It wasn’t a matter of trust, or indeed nor was he trying to double deal his closest associates. He simply hadn’t shared his true motive for his interest in a smoother passage to Europe. He continued to smile, and as if on cue, the noise of a vehicle approaching in the still night air aroused everyone’s attention.
‘It’s a bus from Marrakech.’ Fawaz promised them. ‘It should be full. I wanted to celebrate, so I splashed out a little. Turn up the music!’ he bellowed.
The sound of laughter and heels click-clicking on the beautifully tiled floor distracted everybody, and the men looked towards the huge oak double doors that led to the courtyard at the front. It opened slowly and the noise grew louder. Perhaps twenty girls walked in and continued to gossip and giggle. They were the usual mixture of local and European women, eager to take advantage of a free party. Fawaz greeted them and showed them where they could get drinks and drugs on tap. Silver platters were on hand topped up with piles of cocaine, ready-rolled zoots, mini pipes full of meth, gold dishes full of pills and plain old American cigarettes. Maids appeared carrying trays full of flutes of champagne topped with strawberries.
The music turned from sedate melodies to American rock, and lights flashed across the white walls. It was fully dark now. Some girls began to dance. Fawaz sat back to watch as his associates, one by one, took a fancy to a girl or two, or three.
It was a good reason to celebrate.
Chapter
