Garment of Shadows (10 page)

True, Annie might have some answers. But that competent and persistent lady Intelligence agent would insist on accompanying him, and shaking her from his tail would not be a quick matter.

Back in the hotel, he used the desk pen to write a message to Annie, telling her that he had gone through Russell’s things. He handed the note to the desk clerk, noted the slot into which the note went, and then walked upstairs to apply his lock picks to the door of that room.

The first thing he saw was Russell’s leather valise, sitting openly atop the room’s wardrobe. It contained a thick folder of moving-picture notes, her favourite fountain pen, three books, a couple of expensive scarves, and a necklace that looked as if it had come from a Moroccan bazaar. The bag had grains of sand in all its corners, as might be expected.

And in its hidden bottom compartment, which Annie may or may not have discovered, a passport and a gold ring.

Holmes sat on the side of the bed, looking from one to the other. It was Russell’s usual passport, and he did not think she had brought another. The ring he’d had made four years ago, when his wife-to-be had admitted, in a shocking display of sentimentality, that she rather thought she might wear a wedding band, if he gave her one.

“Russell,” he muttered. “What the devil are you up to?”

He told himself that finding these objects in the valise should be reassuring, rather than worrisome. That their presence here suggested she’d not been drugged, or dragged, from the tent. But the ring might have sat in the secret compartment for some time, since she would not have worn a gold band during the filming. And she could have left the passport with it, guarding against desert sneak-thieves.

In any event, even if she had left both items behind, it would make for a clear statement that she anticipated being in a situation where British identity papers and a wedding ring—even one worn around her neck—would be vulnerable, or would make its wearer vulnerable.

Not knowledge to put a man’s mind to rest.

When he was satisfied that there were no messages concealed among the papers or books, he pushed everything but the passport and ring back into the valise, then turned to Annie’s possessions, making no attempt to hide the signs of his search.

The only things of interest were half a box of bullets and a very new passport.

He stood, fiddling with the ring, feeling its etched design. The windows had gone dark; the others would return any minute. Wait for Annie?

No: She would be more liability than assistance.

Holmes left the hotel carrying only a small rucksack, heading in the direction of the train station. He hailed a passing horse-cab, and paid the man for a gallop, but the last train had left.

He spent the night in a flea-ridden hotel near the station, and caught the first train north in the morning, heading for many cups of Fez coffee, and for—
insh’Allah
—some word of Russell.

The train reached Fez just before noon.

Holmes walked directly to the first coffee house he saw, bustling with Saturday traffic.

Two hours and far too much coffee later, he went to find the facilities.

An hour after that, a young boy stepped inside, swept his brown eyes across the clientele, and walked over to Holmes’ tiny table.

A light-eyed Berber,
too young to be interested in the girls
.

“May I help you?” Holmes asked, in Arabic, then French.

The boy held out his hand—but it was curled slightly inwards: an invitation, not a beggar’s request. Holmes’ eyes narrowed.

“Do you understand me?” he asked.

The boy blinked an affirmative.

“Have you been in Erfoud?”

A smile.

“Are you capable of speech?”

This time, a brief shake.

“You wish me to come with you.”

The lad stood back, and dropped his hand.

Holmes laid some coins on the table and followed him out the door, onto the street, up to the town, and through the streets of Fez el-Jdid (“New” Fez, a mere seven centuries old, as opposed to the twelve-hundred-year-old medina) between the Sultan’s palace and the Jewish quarters, before plunging once again into the incredible hotchpotch of tiny pathways that was Fez el-Bali—packed to bursting with all the human types of North Africa.

Holmes had spent five days meandering through the city on his previous visit, so he knew the primary routes. Just inside the Bou Jeloud gate, the main paths diverged, to join again near the city’s main mosque. The Dar Mnehbi complex was along the more southern track, Talaa Seghira. Now, however, at the Fasi equivalent of the village green where the ways split, the mute lad led him to the left, along the more northern Talaa Kebira.

Much of this area was covered by the rush matting that made the streets cool in the summer, but did nothing to warm them in the winter. The ways were dim and crowded, and Holmes would not have been surprised to feel a pick-pocket’s fingers, dipping into this foreign prey being led deep into the medina.

No thieves made a try at his pockets, but as they went, Holmes came to two conclusions. First, despite taking him the wrong way, the lad knew the city like the inside of his teeth. And second, he was looking for someone.

Twice, the boy paused to scramble onto a box or a step, peering along the heads or down an adjoining lane before hopping back down to the cobbles and pressing on. He repeated the act a third time just under the so-called waterclock, a puzzling structure of protruding beams and brass bowls made all the more enigmatic by the local insistence that it had, at one time, been an actual clock.

But whatever—or whomever—the lad was looking for, he did not find it, diving back into the street and leading on, ever on.

Then he stopped, looked around him, and seemed to realise that he had overshot his goal. He turned south, wriggling through several by-ways so small, Holmes would have taken them for inadvertent gaps between the buildings, before finally popping back out onto the street a few doors up from Dar Mnehbi. The boy marched up to the broad double doors, banged on them with a small fist, then turned to give Holmes a cheery grin. The door opened; Youssef looked out, first at the boy, who seemed to surprise him, then at Holmes. He came to attention.

“Monsieur,” he said. “You have returned.”

“So it would seem,” Holmes said. “My young friend here— Wait! Stop!”

But the lad had taken off, sprinting into a crowd of ladies. By the time Holmes had struggled through the shocked and giggling women-folk, the boy was nowhere in sight.

Back at the entrance to Dar Mnehbi, Holmes looked at Youssef. “It would appear that I am to remain here until the young man returns for me. If you don’t mind?”

He was returned to the arms of the Resident General’s household as if he had never left, given the same rooms, brought a tray of the same excellent coffee, offered luncheon.

“I’d better use the bath first, and rid myself of these clothes. I shouldn’t wish to introduce fleas into Dar Mnehbi.”

He took his time, coaxing a quantity of very hot water out of the geyser. Again, he considered his beard in the looking-glass, and again decided to retain it. He wrapped his previous night’s clothing in the damp towel, to lock any wildlife inside, and rang to let Youssef know he was ready for his meal.

The quiet man was there in minutes, uncovering the tray, laying out a cloth, replacing the empty carafe of coffee with a fresh one. He had the good servant’s skill of efficient invisibility, with smooth motions that got the job done while attracting no attention. Quick, yet unobtrusive.

Holmes appreciated professionalism, in any profession.

As he tucked into a most pleasant couscous of spiced lamb and chickpeas, clean and warm before the room’s glowing brazier, the sounds of another arrival were a reminder of Lyautey’s manifold responsibilities. He must let the Maréchal know that a second round of entertaining this stray English relation was not required: He intended to leave, once he’d figured out why the boy had stashed him here.

When he had finished, he took his coffee over to the window. Windows in traditional Arabic architecture were primarily shuttered openings that faced inward, onto the central courtyard, to provide a basic amount of light and ventilation. Here, the French had breached the external walls of the
dar
’s upstairs guest-rooms with hinged windows. The sacrifice of security and privacy was well worth it, from Holmes’ European eyes, and the tantalising glimpses of gardens, streets, and rooftop terraces had proved the most desirable quality of the rooms during his stay.

Now, he flung the glass open and planted his shoulder against the frame, his cup balanced on the tiled sill. The town’s noise obscured the splash of the courtyard fountain, but the air was still fragrant. Somewhere, a canary trilled. He took out his tobacco, torn between simple pleasure and waspish impatience.

He would give Russell until the morning, before he turned the town upside-down.

He knew that she was almost without a doubt the author of her own absence. Had it not been for two things, he might have thought that she had decided to, as the Australian aboriginal peoples called it, “go walkabout”—that the memory of those weeks in Palestine with Ali and Mahmoud, living in their goat’s-hair tents and drinking coffee as strong as that in his cup now, had tempted her to the romance of the dunes. Her version of his own sojourn in the southern High Atlas, but among the Tuaregs.

Except that the letter left for him in Rabat five days ago suggested, and the appearance of a mute boy that morning confirmed, a quite different scenario than a light-hearted holiday. The letter, and its author, opened the door to an alternative explanation that was both reassuring and yet, in the longer term, troubling; one that—

“
Salaam aleikum
, Holmes.” The lisping voice from the adjoining window startled Holmes, but it did not surprise him. He leaned out, past the burning cigarette resting between his fingers on the window’s sill, and looked into a pair of black eyes above a faint smile that revealed a gap in the front teeth.

Holmes’ grin was considerably wider. “I thought as much!
Aleikum essalaam
, Ali Hazr.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“I
wondered if I mightn’t see you, before long,” Holmes said to Ali. They were settled before the brazier in Holmes’ room, speaking in the habitual low tones of men on whom heavy secrets often rest: A
dar
’s architecture allowed for little privacy. “Did my brother, Mycroft, tell you we were here, in Morocco?”

“He sent word last month, but his letter only reached us ten days ago. We have been in remote parts. As my brother no doubt told you.”

“I have not seen Mahmoud. He left a letter for me in Rabat.”

Ali lifted his eyes from the process of dribbling tobacco into cigarette paper. “A letter?”

Holmes took out his note-case and gave Ali the page. “I know his hand well enough, there was no need for a signature.”

Holmes watched his eyes skip over the sheet. The younger man was more conservatively dressed than he had been in Palestine, where brilliant colours and beaded plaits had given him the look of a Bedouin pirate. Now, his clothes were chosen with care, but he wore no scent, and his dark eyes showed no trace of kohl.

“How is Mahmoud?” It was not an idle question: Trapped in England the previous year, Ali’s partner had suffered—and Ali with him.

“He is well. Nearly himself.”

“Nearly?”

“There are … uncomfortable elements to our task here. We shall both be glad to go home.”

He did not mean England.

Ali scowled at the brief message, holding it up to check for hidden marks. There were none—Holmes had looked, but retained the page in case he had missed something. Now, the writer’s partner replaced the note in its envelope, and dropped both onto the glowing coals.

“He left it at the hotel on Monday,” Holmes told him. “I’ve been travelling in the Atlas, and only returned to Rabat yesterday. Where I found a letter from an old friend-in-arms, and discovered that Russell had last been seen walking away from an encampment near Erfoud on Tuesday. You and I both seem to have mislaid our partners. Experience suggests that the two events are connected.”

Ali, frowning into the flames, muttered,
“Insh’Allah.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes. “That sounded remarkably like a prayer.”

The younger man woke to the unlit cigarette resting between his fingers. When he had it going, he pulled his long, wickedly sharp knife from its decorated scabbard and drew a scrap of wood from his pocket. Ali thought best with a knife in his hand.

“A year ago,” Ali began, “Mahmoud and I left England, fully intending to return to Palestine for good. We took our time, stopping two weeks in Paris. Mahmoud—Marsh—wanted to talk with Iris. He thought it possible they would not meet again, and he had business with her over the boy.”

Ali and Mahmoud Hazr were also Ali and “Marsh” Hughenfort, with a complex and high-born English history they had worked hard to leave behind. Iris was Marsh’s wife; “the boy,” their grandson. A very young duke.