The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (10 page)

A
l
Mohzerer pulled up outside an ancient stone building on his farm. He flicked a
half-smoked cigarette aside and hauled the plastic barrel off the pickup,
eyeing the rusting tailgate with contempt. It was a bitter reminder that
although his gang played a key role in the hashish trade, the majority of the
profit filled the pockets of European drug lords.

“Salaam alaikum.” Saleem, his aging foreman, appeared in the
doorway, patting plant dust from his djellaba in a gesture of subservience.

“And may peace be upon you,” Al Mohzerer replied in Arabic,
before switching to French.
“
Le produit est prêt
?”

“Of course,
sayyid
. Allah has been good to us. Come, come.”
He beckoned with his palm facing down.

Behind the outhouse’s ramshackle façade lay a hive of
activity as workers, eyes red from the cloud of cannabis dust, set about the
final stages of preparation. Unlike Ahmed and Mohamed, these men had long since
served out their indenture, earning the approval, if not the respect, of Al
Mohzerer.

Two of the gang beat the base foliage a second time and,
using a sheet of muslin, sieved out the minute epidermal cells containing the
highest level of tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) the plant’s psychotropic chemical,
resulting in buckets of pure hash powder.

Another team poured the valued commodity into cellophane bags
and taped them up to form packets. They spiked the packets with tiny holes to prevent
escaping air bursting them in the press. The machine itself consisted of a
hydraulic truck jack set into a custom-built metal frame, which crushed the
powder to create a block of hashish so solid you could hammer a nail in with
it. The mold left an imprint of a Barbary macaque on the block to identify the
product as Golden Monkey in the marketplace, a source of pride for Al Mohzerer.
The final part of the process involved sealing the goods in wax and dusting
them with fragrant powder to foil sniffer dogs before wrapping them in layers
of brown parcel tape for export.

The Grower sat cross-legged on a floor cushion as Saleem
lifted a pot of mint tea from a wood-burning stove, filled two thimble-sized
cups and dropped a sugar lump in each, the accepted protocol prior to
discussing business.

“Once again you have done me proud, old brother.” Al
Mohzerer rarely bestowed such terms of endearment. “May Allah rain peace upon
you.”

“You are too kind,
sayyid
. I am but a simple man who
does his best for his master.”

Talking the talk handed down through the ages, Saleem
crumbled ash from the fire into the bowel of a sipsi pipe and sprinkled on a
layer of hash powder. Igniting the mix, he knew better than to offer it to the Grower,
who would stick to his Maxims, a cheap imitation of the mighty Marlboro,
knowing that for his boss the resultant paranoia from smoking the herb had long
since outweighed its beneficial effects.

“We go back a long way.” Al Mohzerer paused to empty his
teacup. “A journey not without hardship.”

Saleem stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, picturing the
evil mountain bend and the faces of his wife and two boys. He shook himself. “And
for our fathers before us, master.”

“Indeed. Your father begged mine to break from the war and
tend to the farm.”

He spoke of the war of independence fought against the
Spanish in the early part of the twentieth century.

“But yours was a man of great honor who put the interests of
the clan first and led its warriors into battle until the bitter end.” Saleem
eased himself up, wincing as he refilled their drinks.

“They both came home broken men,” Al Mohzerer muttered.

“The only two who did return.” Saleem shook his head slowly.

“But to what?” the Grower spat. “To fields gone to waste. My
father leading a clan of women and dead men.”

“Inshallah,
sayyid
. We cannot change the past. You
did your best to recover the farm.”

“For a while it was good.”

“It was glorious.” Saleem gazed at the embers smoldering in
the pipe’s bowel and smiled. “Supplying the greedy infidels with the magic herb
made you a rich man.”

“Then the cursed fungus destroyed the plants and made me
poor once more. I sold off much of my family’s land to survive yet still had to
pay the workers and the never-ending bribes.” The Grower swirled the dregs of
tea around in the cup and then flicked them on the dusty floor.

“It will come again,
sayyid
. There are moves far and
wide to legalize the herb, and then there’s the medical market in Europe and
America.”

“You speak kind words, old friend, but the infidels grow
their own product now. They no longer need our fertile earth and the blessed
weather from Allah. It can all be bought on this thing they call the Internet
and grown in their pox-ridden homes under artificial light that shines brighter
than the midday sun.”

Sensing Al Mohzerer’s growing antipathy, Saleem changed the
subject.

“And what of the two boys,
sayyid
? They show promise,
no?”

“Ha!
Shemkara
. Rats from the gutter with filthy
poisoned lungs and treacherous minds.”

“Please do not be hard on them,
sayyid
. They have
only known suffering in their short years and could be your biggest asset in
times to come. They carry the fire in their hearts . . . like we once did.”

F
uture
rode out the storm under bare poles, a parachute sea anchor streamed from the bow
to keep her into the wind and prevent further drama. When resetting the
last-chance line, Hans found out why it had been difficult to locate and not tripped
the steering mechanism – it had hooked around the rudder when
Future
keeled over. After checking on the girls, he changed into dry clothes and
filled a thermos with soup for the long night ahead, spent sitting upright in
his sleeping bag catnapping in the cockpit.

“Hello, handsome.” Penny handed him a mug of coffee.

“Uh . . .”

“Guess we had quite a night last night.”

“You could say that. How’s the head?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I superglued the cut while you were out of it.”

“Really?” Penny fingered the painful bump. “You’re quite the
GI Joe, aren’t you?”

“I’ve seen worse, but you should get it checked out when we
reach La
Coruña. How’s Jess?”

“Zonked.” Penny smiled briefly before catching the emotion
in Hans’ eyes. “What happened, honey?”

With the sun burning a hole in the miserable gray ceiling
and
Future
making light work of the remaining swell, Hans retold events.

Penny listened aghast. When he had finished, their mutual
silence conveyed the debt of gratitude owed to this marvelous kid.

After a time Penny chirped up, “Hey! You know what they say?”

“No. What do
they
say?”

“Worse things happen at sea.”

Her quip lightened the mood and, together with the morning
rays now ricocheting off the water, reminded Hans this trip was supposed to be
fun.

“Hot chocolate?” he tempted. “With a li-ttle shot of rum?”

“Hmm!” Penny beamed. “Be rude not to.”

Snuggling together, the spirit working its magic, both
experienced sheer bliss in the calm after the storm.

“Après ski,” Penny murmured.

“Après ski?”

“This feeling – like downing a large brandy after a day on
the slopes.”

“Right, erm, hot bath after a jog in the rain?”

“Mmm . . . Fire on the beach after a dip in the sea.”

“Sauna after rolling naked in the snow . . .”

“Hey?”

“Oh, must be a military thing.”

Whatever the feeling, neither of them wanted to be anywhere
else at any other time in history.

“Sandwiches!”

Standing in the companionway, mouth smeared in blackcurrant
jam, the first mate looked pleased with her effort.

“Oh, sweet pea! Did you make them for us?” Penny took the
plate stacked with irregularly chopped offerings.

Upon closer inspection, “sandwiches” proved to be a generous
description in view of the distinct lack of filling splattered between slices
of bread like
Rorschach’s inkblots, but Hans and Penny wolfed
them down nonetheless.

“So who was a big, brave girl last night?”
Penny cleaned Jessica’s face with a wet wipe. “Did you tell Daddy I banged my
head?”

“Hmm! Daddy got
all
wet.”

“So I heard.”

“Will
Marshell
be
okay? Did
Siska
fall down too?”

“Oh . . .” Penny glanced at Hans. “I’m sure
he’ll be fine. He’s been in much worse weather than this.”

S
weeee-sweeee!
A tiny
bird alighted on the spreader, fluffing its orange and turquoise plumage to dry
off the spray.

“Land ahoy!” Hans spotted the Spanish coastline on the
horizon. “La Coruña for lunch!”

An hour later a rocky headland covered in sparse grass like
a worn-out toupee loomed over them.

“Check that out.” Standing at the helm, Penny pointed at the
cliff top.

Hans and Jessica looked up to see a bunch of weird Easter
Island–like statues and someone’s idea of a futuristic take on Stonehenge.

“Modern art?” asked Hans.

“I guess so.” Penny grinned. “But that tall building there—”

Hans eyed the striking obelisk.

“Tower of Hercules. World’s first-known lighthouse. Dates
back to Roman times.”

“Wow, that’s four hundred years earlier than our oldest
Native American monument.”

For Hans the trip was already the experience of a lifetime, despite
last night’s challenges. In the military, while on NATO training exercises in
the Norwegian Arctic, he had taken a week’s leave to explore his roots in
neighboring Sweden. Indulging in enormous smorgasbords washed down with
brännvin
and
öl
while
immersed in the history and culture of his Scandinavian
ancestors had been a revelation, and visiting a Viking museum in picturesque Stockholm
a welcome break from skiing for days in full equipment and living in snow caves.
But something about Europe was unique, as if it offered a lens through which to
view the United States into context.

“
H
e
has the heart of a rock.” Mohamed attacked the plate of olives, goat cheese and
flatbread.

“And the bitterness of a thousand lemons.” Ahmed spat a
stone into the long grass.

“Do not be so quick to judge another before you have carried
the weight of their burden and understand what it is that makes them heavy of
chest,” Saleem interjected, though in truth he empathized with the boys.

Ahmed and Mohamed swapped glances, knowing exactly where
their loyalties lay.

They looked forward to lunch with Saleem, Al Mohzerer’s
trusted foreman. A kindly old man, he lived in a cottage on the farm, his
history with the Grower spanning generations. Eating with him in the soft grass
in front of the farmhouse provided a welcome break from the boredom of the hut
and the endless harvesting of plants out on the terraces. As with countless
waifs over the years, Saleem had taken the youngsters under his wing, showing
them the love he once felt for his own two boys.

“Look about you.” Saleem cast an arm over the land. “One
hundred years ago this farm thrived, yielding rich crops of barley and wheat,
while herds of sheep and goat grazed as far as the eye could see.”

Only knowing the farm to grow marijuana, Ahmed and Mohamed were
fascinated, as always falling under the spell of Saleem’s fatherly talk. Not a
single cloud interrupted the pristine sky, just the fluffy white plumage of
Atlas flycatchers as they climbed and dipped in search of juicy delights to
feed gluttonous clutches.

“What do you know of the Berbers?”

The boys looked at each other, faces a blank.

“The clans have lived in the Rif since time began. Fierce
men, loyal women, no one would ever take this land from them, and certainly not
the Spanish invaders.”

As the old man spoke, a butterfly alighted on his knee and
began to pad around in a clumsy circle on the white cotton of his djellaba. A
collage of zebra stripes, sunburst reds and yellows and oranges, and mock eyes
emblazoned the finely ribbed sections of the insect’s wings, and despite
failing eyesight, Saleem could make out tiny black arrowheads marking the wings’
serrated edges.

Prior to their arrival at the farm, the boys had never seen
such beautiful creatures, but out of habit Mohamed raised his palm and took a
swipe.

“Stop!” Ahmed blocked his friend’s arm and gave him a look
of thunder.

“The ancients believed that when a butterfly lands you can
give it a message to take to loved ones in heaven,” said Saleem.

As the insect lifted into the air, he appeared to lose his
train of thought before continuing the story. “Al Mohzerer’s father was the
great Saeed, leader of the Zayenesh clan, shrewd but compassionate and greatly
respected by his people. In the summer of 1921, he sat in this exact spot” –
Saleem stroked the long green stems – “applying a splint to the leg of an
injured lamb. He heard the sound of beating hooves and looked up to see a
figure approaching on horseback. A boy your age” – Saleem’s eyes glinted as
they had at this part of the tale many times before – “dismounted and delivered
a message that would change the family’s fortune forever.”

The boys followed his gaze to see the stone trough the
messenger’s horse drank from all those years ago.

“Spanish troops had breached the Rif’s eastern border and
set up a military outpost in the foothills of the Abarran Mountains. The great Saeed
had heard enough. ‘We ride!’ he replied, and within an hour the men of the
Zayenesh mounted and rode east to join the coalition, their horses kicking up a
plume of dust visible for miles around.

“The Berber tribesmen had a long tradition of fighting and a
high standard of fieldcraft, but lacked weapons. Saeed advised Abd el-Krim,
their charismatic leader, to send men into battle with a rifle between two, so
should a Berber fall his brother could continue the fight.”

“Men went into battle without a gun?” Ahmed looked at Saleem
in disbelief.

“The men went into battle with the loyalty of the clan and
the hearts of lions. A force of five hundred descended on the Spanish, rifles
blazing and scimitars drawn, massacring two hundred of the infidels. Word
spread, and the Riffian ranks swelled. They attacked a hundred more
encampments, employing guerilla tactics, captured weapons and killed thousands
more enemy, laughing as the Spanish fled north to the coast.”

“Al Saeed was a hero!” Mohamed stared into Saleem’s cloudy
eyes.

“Saeed was a simple farmer who had to decide whether to
return to his land and tend to the crops and livestock or stay by the side of
Abd el-Krim. He chose to remain.”

“Did they slay the remaining infidels like dogs?” Ahmed’s pupils
widened as he spoiled for the fight.

“The Spanish troops were no match for us Berbers, who have
only ever known hardship and suffering. Our numbers grew to eighty thousand,
and we drove the remaining scum back to Melilla in the east.”

“Yaaaah!” Mohamed swung a mock scimitar, imagining a lopped
enemy head spurting blood as it flew through the air.

“But Abd el-Krim made a foolish error. Rather than close in
on Melilla and cut the infidels down like grass” – Saleem ripped up a handful
of stalks and let the breeze flutter them from his palm – “he began to wage war
on the occupying French in the west.”

“Why let the snake grow another head?” Mohamed felt
betrayed.

Saleem pulled a sipsi pipe and a small ivory box from the
sleeve of his djellaba. “You are wise for one so young.” He took a pinch of
hash powder from the ornate holder and thumbed it into the pipe’s bowel. “Abd
el-Krim feared reprisals from other European nations who had interests in
Melilla.” He lit a match and circled it around his preparation while drawing on
the pipe’s stem, blowing a plume of yellowy-brown smoke into the fresh mountain
air.

With a look of bliss settling over his leathery face and
softening the appearance of a beaked nose, the old man resumed his history
lesson. “But by taking on the French he made a big mistake. The garlic eaters
could not risk rebellion spreading through their African colonies and sent a
massive army, with planes and artillery support. The Foreign Legionaries” – Saleem
took a long pull on the pipe, holding in the magic fumes as they transported
him backwards in time – “they were ruthless in battle, executing prisoners and”
– he drew a finger across his throat – “decapitating the fallen.”

“But Abd el-Krim and Al Saeed, they must have killed them
all!” Mohamed spoke with the same passion as the young Berbers drawn to the
slaughter.

“Ho Chi Minh, Mao Zedong, Che Guevara – they all learned
from Saeed’s legendary leadership, but the humble farmer could do nothing to
stop the infidels unleashing vile chemicals on the villages. Babies, children,
adults and elders writhing on the ground, suffocated by the foul gas, lungs on
fire and drowning in their own blood as the foreigners counted their greedy
profits.

“Abd el-Krim was forced to surrender and banished from the
land. Saeed returned to his farm a broken man, a leg crippled by shrapnel, his
lungs starched by the devil’s mustard breath, his workforce dead.”

“Did he die too?” Mohamed spoke through a mouthful of bread
and olives, his rotten teeth making ugly work of masticating the bolus.

“How could he die, you idiot?” Ahmed pretended to slap his
friend but instead forced Mohamed’s gaping maw shut. “He is the father of Al
Mohzerer.”

“Allah blessed Saeed with twenty more years, but alas he
joined the Holy Prophet – may peace be upon Him – two days before Naseem
entered the world to inherit a farm gone to rack and ruin.” Saleem looked out
over the fields as if to acknowledge his own stake in the land, his family
working the farm for generations, his father fighting by Saeed’s side.

“His mother, the beautiful Aisha, told the young Naseem
tales of his father’s military prowess, his agricultural genius and the praise
he received as head of the Zayenesh. But times had changed, and following the
Berber’s defeat, the remaining clan developed infighting and factions, denying
Naseem the chance to prove himself as successor.”

“But he is
Al Mohzerer
,
known
throughout
the land.”

Mohamed struggled to accept the scenario, which did not fit
with the image of the legendary Naseem.

“He was not always the Grower.” Saleem began reloading his
pipe. At eighty-four years old, his wife and boys long since claimed by the
cruel mountain pass, he felt good sitting there with the sun on his face, the
scent of the land in his nostrils, imparting treasured memories to fresh ears. “Back
then he was just a child filled with anger and resentment. He gained a reputation
for fighting and clawing his way through life and had none of his father’s
compassion. He would do all it took to reinstate what he saw as rightfully his.
You see the knife scar on his cheek?” Saleem ran a finger down his own face.

The boys nodded.

“A mere scratch compared to the pain he has inflicted upon
others.”

“But how did he become Al Mohzerer?”

Ahmed’s respect for their employer’s deviousness grew, but
it would not stop him double-crossing the stinking jackal at the earliest
opportunity.

“In the sixties, infidels appeared in the region once more,
ghoulish trash with lank, greasy locks hanging against gaunt spectacled faces.”
Saleem coughed up a chunk of brown phlegm and spat it into the grass. “Filthy
clothes patched like paupers, guitars dangling on rainbow-colored straps from
their drug-addled frames.”

Ahmed and Mohamed pictured some of the Europeans who arrived
at the farm to buy hashish, the privileged young dopeheads wearing fat,
flea-ridden dreadlocks with a pride bordering on arrogance.

“And all desperate to buy marijuana,” Saleem continued. “Smoking
their way along the Hippy Trail – what us impoverished mortals call ‘life.’ But
Naseem was not stupid. He seized the opportunity, sowing the seeds that would
see him become Al Mohzerer, his plants flourishing in the Rif’s blessed soil.”