Mohammed paused and appeared to be giving the request serious thought.
Finally, he shrugged and nodded.
“Ayatollah Sheikh Massoud al-Ahmadi. After Ayatollah Sheikh Hussein al-Radhi was convicted, he eventually became the senior Shi’a cleric in the Eastern Province. Most of what he’ll say will naturally be the standard complaints about the government’s handling of terrorist activities. However, he may let some detail slip that might prove useful. Naturally, if he does we’d appreciate hearing about it,” Mohammed said, arching one eyebrow.
Grishkov finally couldn’t restrain himself, but Vasilyev was pleased to see that he did no more than ask a question.
“This Ayatollah al-Radhi. Any chance he’ll be released before we make the trip? We wouldn’t want to see the wrong person,” Grishkov said.
Mohammed at first looked surprised, and then laughed. “He was sentenced to thirteen years. Since he was in his sixties when he was imprisoned, I’d be surprised if he lives long enough to see the outside of a jail cell. No, there’s no danger of seeing him instead of al-Ahmadi.”
Grishkov simply nodded.
Mohammed then rose, immediately followed by Grishkov and Vasilyev. “I will send you details on how to arrange a meeting with al-Ahmadi once I am back in the office. I wish you good fortune on your trip,” Mohammed said, and shook each of their hands before departing.
Once he was gone, Vasilyev and Grishkov sat back down and looked at each other.
“It would be wrong to root for the terrorists,” Grishkov said, soberly.
Vasilyev smiled. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself, not making a statement.”
Grishkov grunted. “Hatred motivated by religious differences I understand, like the Chechen Muslims resenting being ruled by Russian Orthodox Christians. But different sects of Islam? From what I’ve read, the similarities in their beliefs far outweigh the differences.”
Now Vasilyev couldn’t restrain his laughter. “My friend, I will find you a good book on the Hundred Years War, where Catholics and Protestants in Europe slaughtered each other with abandon for a century. The total killed was over three and a half million. Sadly, our classes in Russia focus on more recent history, so I can’t say I’m surprised you’re not familiar with it. I wouldn’t know myself if I hadn’t started reading about history as a hobby.”
Grishkov smiled. “Well, you have never married and have no children. It’s good you found something productive to fill up all that free time besides drinking, like most Russian men your age.”
Vasilyev smiled in return, and lifted the fresh cappuccino the waiter had just brought him at his signal. “Who says I don’t drink? I just prefer caffeine to alcohol.”
Then Vasilyev arched one eyebrow, and said, “I was impressed with the Arabic expressions you worked into your… expression of discontent at the intersection. Obviously, you have gone beyond your classroom curriculum.”
Grishkov shrugged and replied, “My instructors appeared to have taken an interest in me. How was Arabic training for you?”
Vasilyev smiled. “First, I should mention that it was before my very first assignment in Morocco, with language training being given at the Embassy in the capital city of Rabat. Perhaps the most memorable moment was when we were each made to sing a song in Arabic. The songs were all sad, about either a man or a woman losing their lover, so “lover” was the key word in each song, which in Arabic is…”
Grishkov nodded and said, “Habibi.”
“Yes, very good,” Vasilyev said, smiling. “The problem was, one of my fellow students sang one of these songs while omitting the first syllable of that key word, “habibi.” So instead of singing about how he couldn’t live without his lover…”
Grishkov shook his head, horrified. “He was singing about how he couldn’t live without his turkey.”
Vasilyev nodded, and said, “The instructor was laughing so hard she was gasping for air while I and the other students looked at each other helplessly, wondering when the poor fellow would stop, but he soldiered on until the end of the song.”
Grishkov shook his head again, and said, “Surely the most memorable training experience for all concerned.”
Vasilyev smiled, and said, “Not so. As a sort of graduation exercise, we were each sent on a separate two-day trip to a much smaller city well outside the capital with an instructor who would not assist, but only evaluate. One student nearly failed before even leaving for the exercise.”
Grishkov frowned. “How could he possibly do that? Were his language skills so poor?”
Vasilyev laughed and said, “On the contrary, they were superior to mine.
No, the instructors were cross because the student refused to believe where he was being sent was not a joke.“
Grishkov’s frown deepened. “How can a place be a joke?”
Vasilyev pulled out a pen and wrote a word on their cafe receipt, “Ouarzazate,” and then slid it towards Grishkov, who shrugged and said, “Never heard of it.”
Vasilyev nodded, and replied, “No reason you should have, though you may have seen it, since it has been the backdrop in several movies set in the Middle East. I wrote it as it was transcribed by the French from the original Arabic. Now, I will write it phonetically, as it would be heard by an English speaker,” and then wrote again on the receipt, and returned it to Grishkov.
Grishkov read it slowly, and then smiled. “Where’s iz at?”
Vasilyev nodded. “As KGB agents posted overseas, we all spoke fluent English. The agent being sent to ‘Ouarzazate’ was certain we were all pulling his leg, until I finally dug out a map of Morocco with enough detail to show its location.”
"Very good,” Grishkov laughed. “So, have you ever been back to Morocco?”
“Yes, though I was not amused by what I found,” Vasilyev said with a frown.
“How so?” Grishkov asked.
“Well, first I should explain that one of my favorite memories on my first trip was a conversation with a young Moroccan woman whose professor had assigned her a biographical paper on Lenin. Since the Kingdom of Morocco’s libraries had little on the topic, she hit on the idea of visiting the Soviet Cultural Center in Rabat.”
Grishkov smiled. “I’ll bet it wasn’t a busy place.”
Vasilyev snorted. “She said she was the only visitor, and that at first the staff appeared puzzled by her arrival. But once she conveyed her purpose, she said they were overjoyed to find someone interested in Lenin, and left staggering under the weight of all the materials they gave her for her paper.”
Grishkov laughed and said, “Well, that sounds like a happy ending.”
Vasilyev nodded, and said, “Yes. I also told her about my favorite biography of Lenin, written by a British author. His forward described his methods, which included trying to find absolutely everyone still alive who had spent any time with Lenin.”
Grishkov frowned, and shook his head. “After Stalin, not an easy task.”
Vasilyev’s smile was rueful. “Yes, just so. He described going to the British Museum where Lenin had done some research, and asking everyone if they had met him, to no avail. Just as he was about to give up, someone said to try the caretaker, who had been there ‘forever.’ But he also said no. Then it occurred to the biographer that the caretaker might have known Lenin under his real birth name of Ulyanov. The caretaker brightened and said, ‘Yes, indeed, I spoke several times with Mr. Ulyanov. A very nice, well-spoken man. Whatever became of him?’ And that’s how he began the biography.”
Grishkov clapped his hands. “Excellent. You must tell me who wrote the book. But first, what didn’t you like when you returned?”
“Well,” Vasilyev scowled, “when I came back to Morocco after many years the Soviet Cultural Center was no more, no surprise since the same was true for the USSR. But I was not pleased by what I found in its place.”