looking establishment specialised in sea food and owned by a Frenchman in his sixties, who greeted Djellali with a broad and familiar smile, he showed them to a table with a view on the harbour. It was obvious that he was a regular customer and a man of standing, the waiters bustled around the table filling their glasses with cold mineral waiter and the owner handed them the menus recommending the specialities of the day.
The waiters were not young, almost of the same age as their patron, but they were professionals and impeccably dressed in waiter’s white jackets and black bow ties. Without any doubt they had worked at the Rascasse for a very long time.
Djellali invited Ennis to the restaurant’s fish tank and chose two enormous crayfish, which were then presented to them at their table split in two and still alive, were ready for the grill. The lunch was excellent served with a Pouilly Fuissé, passing the time agreeably. It was compensation, thought Ennis, for Djellali talked almost non-stop, and he seemed to talk for the pleasure of hearing his own voice.
The one-way conversation was however instructive. Ennis learnt that Djellali’s family was of pied-noir descent and had chosen to remain in Morocco after independence, opting for Moroccan citizenship. He had been born in Casablanca, where he had lived until his early twenties. Djellali told Ennis that the government of Algharb counted to a large degree on pied-noirs, such as himself, especially at the higher levels of its administration.
On leaving the restaurant Abdelhamid was waiting for them with Djellali’s car and driver that was to bring him back to his office at the Ministry.
“So John Ennis, I have to leave you here. Don’t forget I am at your disposal if you have the least problem. Now Abdelhamid will continue as your guide. So I wish you a nice visit of our beautiful city.”
The Ministry
Monsieur Ennis there remains just one formality to be completed before you can commence your work.”
“Oh!”
“A visit to the Immigration Service at the Ministry of Internal Affaires, we’ll go there directly if that’s alright with you."
“No problem,” replied Ennis. Since the start of his trip to the Mediterranean region he had become used to the endless formalities. He had hoped for a little more flexibility in Algharb, but he realised that he had been too optimistic.
The Ministry was situated in a massive new building, in black granite and glass. It was monolithic block planted in the middle of a bright green garden, a startling contrast to the traditional architecture of the city.
Over the entrance the flag of Algharb hung limply in the stifling heat, a green background with a deep red star in the middle. Before the massive bronze doors two soldiers, in the grey uniforms of the paramilitary forces, stood guard. Once the visitors had passed through the doors a red cordon guided them towards the reception desk, where officials in dark blue suits and wearing red fezzes saluted Djellali, whom they recognised at once.
“Salem alekum,” said Djellali, greeting the officials.
“Alekum salem.”
“Monsieur Abdelmoumoun,” Djellali said announcing his appointment.
“Oui Monsieur,” replied the official with a sudden air of efficiency. Ennis detected a stiffening in the men at the mention of Abdelmoumoun’s name.
“Monsieur Ennis, your passport please.”
Ennis handed it over and one of the officials filled in a form, who then asked them to follow him to the director’s office.
The hall was vast and cavernous, the dim light reflected off the polished marble of the floor and walls giving the hall a sinister appearance, though the cool air provided a relief from the heat of the day outside of the building.
They arrived in a lobby area in front of a magnificent waterfall that cascaded down into a dense thicket of tropical plants. They took one of the lifts to the third floor where they followed a long corridor to an office market Secretariat. Posted before the doors were two aged guards in olive coloured police style uniforms wearing peaked hats, one of them precipitated himself towards Djellali with an obsequious salute whilst the other opened the door towards the secretary’s office.
Inside Djellali announced the visitor to the secretary who was expecting them, she showed them to a waiting room, a kind of antechamber, where they seated themselves in a pensive silence for some ten minutes before the secretary returned, ushering them through a double door into a spacious office furnished in a heavy French ministerial style.
Behind a large Empire style bureau sat a thick set man turning the pages of a dossier, attentively reading the documents it contained before signing them one by one in a flourish of self importance. He did not lift his eyes and ignoring the visitors took a second dossier from a pile.
After some minutes of silence and without lifting his head he started to talk.
“Why have you come to our country?”
Ennis was startled by the question and by the manner in which it was posed.
Abdelmoumoun slowly lifted his head and looked at Ennis with an air of impatience and despise. Djellali started to reply, but quickly stopped as the Director raised his hand.
Born in Fez, Morocco, Abdelmoumoun had been raised with a respect for order and severity by his father, the director of a large prison. After his baccalaureate his French mother dispatched him to Paris where he studied law and then took up permanent residence. As a French citizen by his mother and resident in France, he was called up for his obligatory military service on completion of his law degree, which he served in the State Security Force, a paramilitary organisation under the Ministry of the Interior. He realised with the changes that were taking place in the country that his future lay in the organisation.
His first significant promotion was to Commissar Principal in the State Security Force in the region of the Department du Gard to the north of Marseille.
With his Franco-Moroccan background and his experience, he was immediately enrolled as a member of the Security Committee of the Autonomous Region following the Evian Agreement, before being appointed Director of Security in the Ministry of the Interior. Less than two years later he was nominated Director of National Security of Algharb.
Djellali had become indispensable in the state security apparatus in President Hassan bin Ibrani’s regime, for the simple reason that he executed the presidential directives with efficiency and without the slightest question. He represented the makhzen, the family and clan structure, which exercised power in Algharb. It was a kind of clientelism mixed with a compromise that allowed the ruling class around Ibrani to maintain its authority, a system inherited from their North African traditions, redistributing favours to all those loyal to the regime.
“I’m here to prepare a series of articles on the Islamic world for the International Herald Post.”
“A series of articles! Islam has no need for journalists, even less for their opinions!”
“They’re to inform our readers.”
“Who are your readers?” he asked with disdain. "We are not looking for publicity, besides we have not asked that our country be approved by Americans.”
“Excuse me Monsieur Abdelmoumoun, I’m neither a politician nor a diplomat, I simply try to carry out my work with a certain objectivity, nothing else.”
“If it was for me to decide there would be no American or foreign journalists in our country, spreading lies and sowing your seeds of hatred. We are perfectly capable of managing our own affaires, with the help of Allah.”
A silence reigned in the room as Abdelmoumoun returned to his dossiers, he looked the paper for a moment and then with a look of distaste he signed it and pushed it across his desk towards Djellali.
“Voila, Monsieur Ennis, you will submit a copy of your article before your departure. I don’t need to repeat that you will follow the recommendations of Monsieur Djellali.”
Ennis nodded without conviction, surprised and dismayed by Abdelmoumoun, who, without another word, returned to his dossiers, signalling the interview was terminated.
In
the corridor Ennis turned towards Djellali who made a sign discreetly lifting his index to his lips. Once outside of the Ministry in the car park he replied to Ennis.
“Monsieur Abdelmoumoun is a very powerful man, I strongly recommend that you follow his advice.”
“But why this interrogation, this attitude? My visa and my mission were approved by the Ministry of Information.”
“You must realise that we are a democratic country,” he said with a condescending smile, “and there are certain people who disapprove of your visit and the idea of developing relations with the USA.”
Ennis lifted his shoulders in a sign of incomprehension.
“It’s like that Monsieur Ennis, just be careful and you will have no problems.”
A New World
The difficulties at the beginning of the twenty first century would be recalled, describing how the present so called imperial era had taken form as the USA had taken count of the changing world and redefined its own specific needs and goals. The steam age had passed, the coal age had passed, and then the oil age passed. Who at the beginning of the century could have imagined the transformation caused by the electricity age, or to be more precise the atomic age? In 2000, the atom had been the target of every tendency of the world’s ecological movements, now the atom dominated, producing electricity, producing the hydrogen that powers land and air transport.
The Western governments