The road stretched ahead like a vein pulsing through Morocco's spine, dusty and sun-bleached. From Casablanca to Rabat, it was not just a journey of kilometers—it was a crossing into the lion's den. Yassin knew that Rabat was the administrative heart of the Protectorate. To strike there was to set a match to the French powder keg.
But he wasn't going alone.
Samira sat beside him in the truck's passenger seat, her head wrapped in a blue scarf that flapped in the wind. In the back, Abbas rested against crates of olives hiding bundles of leaflets and clandestine radio equipment. With them was young Amal, a courier from Derb Sultan, her eyes filled with both fear and fire.
Rabat was not expecting ghosts.
Checkpoint
Near the outskirts of Mohammedia, a French roadblock loomed. Soldiers waved down passing vehicles, rifles in hand. Samira quickly handed Yassin a forged transport permit.
"Let me speak," she said. "Your accent still has the tang of Casablanca."
A gendarme approached.
"Papiers, madame."
Samira smiled, handed over the permit, and engaged the soldier in halting French, complaining about olive taxes and family demands. The soldier laughed, handed the papers back, and waved them on.
Once clear, Abbas exhaled. "That woman could sell fire to a flamethrower."
Yassin smiled, but his eyes were fixed on the road. Rabat was near.
The Network
Rabat's medina was quieter than Casablanca, its streets more elegant but also more closely watched. Here, resistance came in whispers and glances, not gunfire.
They met with Leïla, a librarian by day, underground publisher by night. Her press was hidden behind a false wall in an old bookseller's shop. Pamphlets of resistance poetry and hand-drawn maps of garrison weak points flowed from her ink-stained hands.
"You're the man with the watch," she said when meeting Yassin. "The one who walks through time."
Yassin blinked. "How do you know that?"
She only smiled. "You're not the first to bend time for freedom."
Operation Shams
The plan was simple, in theory: disrupt the French communication relay center during the military parade celebrating Bastille Day. While officers stood in pomp and uniforms glistened under sun, Amal would sneak into the Grand Post Office and deploy a modified version of al-Kharba.
Yassin and Samira would trigger a diversion by setting off a fake car fire outside the Ministry of the Interior, drawing security away.
Leïla would handle the broadcast—an anonymous voice speaking truth across colonial frequencies.
The night before, they met one last time atop the Kasbah of the Udayas, under a crescent moon. The Bouregreg River shimmered below.
"You think it'll work?" Amal asked.
Yassin placed a hand on her shoulder. "If it doesn't, they'll still hear us. Even if just once."
The Day of the Parade
Heat shimmered over Rabat's wide boulevards. French officers marched, bands played, colonial flags fluttered.
Samira lit the car's fuel line with a cigarette and walked away as it burst into smoke.
Yassin stood on a rooftop, watching French troops scramble toward the fake blaze.
Inside the Grand Post Office, Amal slipped past the guards, her school uniform perfect camouflage. She planted the disruptor, her hands steady.
Leïla's voice echoed through hidden radios and intercepted frequencies:
"This is the voice of Morocco. Not the Morocco of marble halls, but the Morocco of blood and bread. We are awake. We are many. We are not yours."
For three minutes, the city held its breath.
And then—chaos.
Escape
They regrouped at the riverbank, breathless. The city was locked down, but it was too late. The message had gone out.
Samira laughed. "We just danced in the middle of their stage."
Leïla handed Yassin a sealed envelope. "You're heading south next. Marrakesh is stirring. They'll need you."
Yassin nodded, tucking the envelope into his coat.
In the distance, Rabat's clocktower rang once, twice, three times.
The pocket watch in Yassin's hand pulsed again.
To be continued in Chapter 14: Shadows Over Marrakesh