12.1 Sandstorm

Across the Atlantic, in the upscale area of Souissi in Rabat, in the neighbourhood of the elites, Calima loafed in the lobby of Sofia Palace. In blue flare skirt and white Madelena shirt with sharp collar and fold-back cuffs. She looked very much like Marina, though bit slim and her hairdo pulled back and fastened to a bun on the nape and that did alter this resemblance.

She stepped to the porch, dark green leaves and red red flowers reminded her of the Moroccan flag. She peered at the procession of luxury cars and returned to the lobby.

Since an old mother asked to find what happened to her daughter, she embarked on to call places and write letters. Two brothers in the military and one was a commercial pilot, other sister stayed home. Calima was the only one fluent to deep sources and of course with family backing, cut the university in Barcelona and returned home to prepare for a journey to Argentina.

Another hour passed, the sun had gone down and lights came on. Golden doors and carved beams, photo frames on the walls. This was always the case with the embassies. When you really needed it; doors shut in your face. Through the representative in Marrakech, she made trips to Casablanca and Rabat to meet with Spanish agents and returned home after seeing no progress in her quest.

Then came a call from the Embassy of Argentina in Rabat, asking her to be at Sofia Palace by five in the evening on 21^st May. That embassy stood right next to the palace. Time struck seven.

Doors of a vehicle banged and a couple of guys in black coats entered, she knew they arrived. That gentleman was tall who lingered over her at the door to the VIP lounge.

“Good Evening! Miss Calima! I am Lino, Ambassador Lino Martinez.”

“I am delighted to meet you, sir.”

“I was about to leave when a call came,” he sat down on the lounger, knees popped up over the low table made of a tree trunk, “Take a seat, please!” Calima sat down on the cube beside the table and crossed her legs. “Indian Prime Minister has been assassinated by a suicide bomber.”

“When?” asked Calima in shock.

“An hour ago,” he pushed a folder towards her, “you read that dossier later. Now, the casino filed for bankruptcy. Paid salaries with Falak’s money, CEO salaries, and the case will enter a court, I believe so, if they wish to retrieve the money. Five involved in the abduction are arrested. They say they want the cash to go into the casino because it is their club. They want to help financially. And the strange thing is, according to these folks, she escaped through a window.

“No one can believe it,” said this young ambassador, “they all suspect, and we do too, a man called Jamal Carreon helped her get out and took her to some place. This Jamal is an American and a wanted man. He is believed to be living in Montevideo. There is a part about him not in the records.

“I will tell you about that and you can take down notes.”

Calima kept taking notes as he told the story behind Tony Yunis who took the body of Borys Jasinski to Uruguay after removing it from Avenue Palace Hotel.

“How can I find him?” asked Calima.

“Are you going there?”

She nodded, “Yes sir. Is it alright?”

“It is okay. But if you engage in looking for criminals, that might not be safe. I think it is a little early to start a private investigation. Let the police do the job and search.”

She sighed, “I can go to Montevideo or talk to the people at the Silverside.”

“Miss Calima, if you want to go, I’ll help you in every way but if you go without a lead, even to Montevideo, I don’t see the point.”

 “Then I must go back to the university in Barcelona.”

“Ah!” cried this young diplomat, “That is why you wrote a letter in Spanish! Let’s have dinner!” and he gestured to his assistant to set a table for two. “You know, I can tell you something off the record. This Jamal is a CIA agent, so it’s not ideal to approach the Americans but the Spanish Embassy, that’s if you have a good contact, can be very helpful in Uruguay.”

“I never had this kind of response from any embassy.”

“Don’t flatter me! I am worried too,” he said, “If you are going there, let me know. You have my card. Call me and I will do my best to find a good agent for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As they entered the restaurant cladded in red and gold, a cultural band on the stage played traditional music and a belly dancer in tight sequined top and long loose skirt, with dark brown hair and golden girdle, danced on between the rows of the tables.

You’ll never get far by stealing a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. Roco knew as a mechanic that he won’t be able to sell parts and spares unless of course an individual called, let alone drive it on the road. He slipped it somewhere because of its beauty. Left the Ferrari in a riot-looted grocery in Bernal. He failed to place a canvas and cover it that day and some folks noticed. They called the police.

And the police observed. Three weeks after the kidnapping, they noticed a red Ford Mustang LX making circles around the grocery and it happened to be Roco. Police caught him with the key to the Daytona spider. With it the whole gang was blown.

Unfortunately, it did not lead the police to the missing woman. She escaped through a window. And if José Lucero was not involved, the only person they could think of was Jamal Carreon who possibly helped and took Marina to a secret location.

Argentinean police knew that he was in Montevideo staying like a fugitive tagged with an Interpol Blue Notice though the authorities of Uruguay had not responded and so far, did not unveil his presence.