The Mahboob Chaudri Mystery MEGAPACK ™: The Complete Mystery Series by Josh Pachter

Author:Josh Pachter [Pachter, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: mystery, detective, arab, crime, sleuth
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2015-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

JEMAA EL FNA

“Biqam?” asked Mahboob Chaudri, holding the ceremonial Berber belt in his hands and gazing admiringly at its bold colors and long tassels and glittering bits of mirror. “How much?” The belt would be an extravagance at any price, but Chaudri had promised himself an extravagance this day, and, after hours of searching through the souks of Marrakesh, he wondered if this might not at last be it.

“No, no, my friend,” the merchant smiled, wagging a chiding finger at the Pakistani and his companion, fellow Public Security Officer Sikander Malek. “How much you like to pay?”

Chaudri had already bought souvenirs for his children and his wife, spending—after much bargaining—some 50 dirham on each of them. Now he had a last 50 dirham set aside for himself. He had long since grown tired of the ritual haggling. It was clearly expected of him, though, so he fingered the belt with apparent indifference and began the game with an offer of 15 dirham.

The Arab laughed. “This is a very fine piece,” he explained. “Very fine. But because you are visitors to my country, I make you a special price: two hondred dirham.”

Chaudri and Malek had arrived in Marrakesh four days earlier as part of the 12-man security team accompanying His Highness the Minister of Defense and his staff. Today was the first time the duty rotation had allowed them a day of rest, and it was to be their only time off of the trip: the Conference of Non-Aligned Nations which His Highness was attending was due to end within 24 hours, and the Bahraini contingent would be flying back to Manama as soon as the final session was over.

“Two hundred dirham?” Chaudri feigned shock and laid down the belt. “La, la, da hrali awi.”

The merchant scooped it up again and held it out to him. “No, my frien’, it’s not too much. Look, you pay hondred-fitty dirham, okay?”

Chaudri waved away the offer. “Thirty dirham,” he said firmly, with the voice he used to interrogate a suspect.

The Arab pressed the belt into his hands. “Not thutty,” he compromised, “not hondred-fitty. We say hondred-thutty dirham, you happy, me happy.”

“Da akhir taman?” the Pakistani asked. “Is that your lowest price?”

The smile disappeared from the merchant’s face. The foreigner in the olive-green uniform had asked that crucial question much too soon. He will never pay my final price, the Arab saw, and I will make no profit if I give it to him for his. He shook his head sadly and took back the belt, folded it together, and returned it to its place. The game was over, and both of the players had lost.

Disappointed, Mahboob Chaudri shook the brown hand the merchant held out to him and turned away from the shop. The Berber belt would have looked beautiful hanging above his bed in the police barracks back in Juffair, but —

“Never mind,” Sikander Malek consoled him. “Perhaps you will find something even better when we get to the Jemaa.”

“These Moroccans are amazingly

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