Free Relative Danger by Charles Benoit Page B

big bazaar in Cairo’s old quarter. When my grandfather and your uncle and his friend got hold of the jewels they had to get out of Casablanca quickly. I mean everybody assumed they did it, your uncle and his friend, that is. My grandfather was never connected to the theft at all.”
    “The home field advantage. Was your Uncle Nasser in on the original idea?”
    “I don’t think so,” Aisha said, “but I do know that it was my grandfather’s idea to hook up with him. Our families have been involved in one business deal or another for a hundred years, still are, in fact. But why go to Cairo? Wasn’t your uncle killed in Singapore? I’d think it’d make sense to start there.”
    “You’d think so, but this woman in Toronto….”
    “Ah, the mystery woman!”
    “…she wants me to go to Cairo first. She might have some contacts there she wants me to look up. Maybe a real live clue.”
    “I know some people in Cairo, too,” she said. “Maybe I’ll hook you up.”
    “What about this Nasser guy? He still alive?” Doug asked.
    “Oh very much so. I visited his shop in the Khan just last month. He’d be the person to talk with about the jewel. I’ll make sure to draw you a good map. I can still get lost in the Khan now and then, but I’m usually pretty buzzed when that happens. You almost ready to go?” she said, checking her watch.
    Doug drained the rest of the beer and put a hundred dirhem note on the table, which made Aisha laugh. “You buying drinks for the house? Give him five and he’ll call himself lucky.” They headed towards the car and she slipped her arm through his, ignoring the stares from the old women with their heads covered with black scarves.
    “If you’ve known this ash can guy….”
    Aisha laughed, gripping his arm. “Ashkanani.”
    “Whatever. If you’ve known this guy for years why didn’t you ask him about the jewel? Or your grandfather? I mean, we’re talking millions here, right?”
    “Right, definitely right. I have asked Uncle Nasser but he always tells me to stick to concrete. As for my grandfather, once Nasser passed on the diamond and sent him a small finder’s fee he lost interest in it. He thought my fascination with Al Ainab was a waste of time, but he still loved to talk about it.”
    They reached her car, a silver BMW convertible that she had parked, Doug noticed, as recklessly as any other Moroccan. “I’d really like to see you again before you go, Doug. Can you fit me in somehow?”
    “Let’s see,” Doug said rubbing his chin, “there’s dinner with the King, and then that little gathering at the British Embassy…. I might be able to squeeze you in.”
    Aisha laughed that light, honest laugh that Doug loved to hear. He hadn’t blown it. Yet.
    “I’ll give you my number,” she said as she raced the car backwards out of the tight space, “you can give me a call later. But you have to promise to spend a long evening with me before you leave.”
    Doug raised his right hand and looked to the broad Atlantic sky. “I swear,” he said.

Chapter 8
    There were days when Tarek Taksha felt he had the best job in all of Morocco.
    Today was one of those days.
    Not that being the manager of a former, and rapidly deteriorating, premier hotel was an important job, but it was a definite step up from trying to hustle decades-old postcards along the cornice. The Sea Port had lost its four-star rating in the early Seventies and another star in the mid-Eighties, but that did not concern the owner, who had a fifth star painted on the red awning in ninety-five. Tarek had started as a bellboy when he was fourteen, working for tips and a share of what people left behind in their rooms. There were enough guests back then to warrant two bellboys. It was old-fashioned hard work and intense sucking up that allowed Tarek to keep his job when the guests dwindled to a trickle.
    When the Sea Port was self-upgraded to a five-star hotel, Tarek became the concierge/bellhop,