Garment of Shadows (21 page)

Abd el-Krim’s dark eyes flashed up, probing Lyautey’s expression for any trace of scorn. The three of us braced for intervention; the air quivered with potential violence; Lyautey met the other man’s eyes evenly—and then the Moroccan’s broad face relaxed into a faint smile.

“A man must often wait, before he knows Allah’s will.”

“And while waiting, must a man do nothing? The God I know may give a man a horse, but he requires that man to seize the reins. A clever leader may find good reason to avoid conflict, by approaching the battle from behind. I am led to believe that you—and your brother—may be clever leaders.”

“
Bismillah
, we do what we can.”

“As I, too, will do what I can, so as not to provoke open confrontation along the Werghal, but encourage the sorts of battles that shed words, not blood.”

“And yet, my people are locked in by our enemies, who ravage our women and murder our sons, who want nothing better than to turn us into slaves to dig out our country’s iron and coal and phosphates. Blood will be shed.”

“Not all neighbours are enemies. And it is possible that a door may become open. Perhaps one of your trusted men may be taken to Paris, to speak to those in power. A man such as your brother?”

The dark and appraising gaze slid sideways to Ali, then returned to the Resident General. “Do you know?”

My translation stumbled, but the phrase was clear.

“Do I know what?” Lyautey asked.

“No, I think you do not. My brother did go to Paris. Your countrymen would not speak with him.”

“Really? When was that?”

“Last spring. He went … quietly.”

“If I arranged a visit, he would be listened to.”

“My brother would make a powerful hostage.”

“I understand. Trust would be required.”

“The people of the Rif have seen their trust rewarded with death.”

“Again, you speak of Spain.”

Abd el-Krim tugged at his moustaches for a while, considering, before something caught his eye, back the way we had come. We turned and saw a horse, trotting along the track underneath the hanging boulder. My horse—but it looked as if it had grown taller since fleeing. Then my eyes focussed more closely on the proportions of the rider, and saw that it was not a grown man.

Idir.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

“T
he lad stole a donkey and followed you from Fez this morning,” Ali told Holmes and me, in English. Idir was hunched by the fire shoving bread down his throat, to the amusement of both Lyautey and Abd el-Krim, who had rumpled the boy’s head with the familiarity of a father. “He reached the last village at the same time a horse with an empty saddle trotted down from the
wadi
track, and the boy did not hesitate to change mounts. I suppose he figured that even if the beast wasn’t yours, it would still be faster than the donkey.”

“I thought you said he would go searching for Mahmoud,” I complained.

“I thought he would.”

“A most determined young person,” Holmes said.

“Have we ever met a passive child?” I lamented.

Ali ignored my grumble. “We must finish here, or we will be caught by night.”

“But they’ve come to no agreement.” My protest surprised him.

“Did you anticipate they would?”

“Wasn’t that why we came?”

“That would have been icing on the cake.” The English simile sounded peculiar coming from that bearded mouth. “The point was to have the two men speak directly, and to see that the other was a man to respect, not a faceless threat. No: This has been a good day’s work.”

The three of us looked over at the trio near the fire: rebel leader, French blueblood, and mute urchin. Abd el-Krim poured the dregs from the pot into his tin mug, and set it before the boy, sharing a glance with Lyautey at the eagerness of the filthy little hands. Lyautey took out a cigarette case and offered it to the Moroccan, who chose one, pulling a twig from the fire to light first the Frenchman’s, then his own.

It is remarkable, how symbolic an act the sharing of tobacco can be.

Ali had finished his latest carving—a hawk in flight—and tossed it to the boy, then caught up one of the blankets and set Idir to saddling the horses. The shadows were growing longer; if we did not leave here in the next hour, we would be travelling that narrow, cliffside track in the dark. Or huddling here in our saddle blankets until dawn.

Abd el-Krim crumbled out the end of his cigarette, putting half of it away in a pocket. “I will consider what you say,” he told Lyautey.

“My great hope is that we can forge a union,” the Frenchman replied, “one that can only make both our people stronger.”

“I cannot draw back from pushing the Spanish to the sea.”

“I understand that. In your position, I would do the same. I only hope, for the sake of the soldiers themselves, that your own men show some mercy.”

Abd el-Krim did not reply; the purse of his lips was perhaps answer enough.

“The world will be watching,” Lyautey reminded him. “Newspaper men are everywhere.”

“Them!” Abd el-Krim said, a noise of dismissal.

“They are a tool, which a wise man uses like any other,” the Frenchman suggested. “In this century, international eyes are becoming a powerful force. Think of your compatriot, Raisuli, when he—”

“He is not my compatriot.”

“I understand. Even if those were not his men shooting at us just now, it has long been clear that Raisuli’s only loyalty is to Raisuli. But my point is, he well understands the value of the international press. He may enslave or murder lesser prisoners, but his kidnapping of Walter Harris bore the face of a gentleman’s affair. When he did the same with the Perdicaris family, he played the rage of the American president into a position of considerable authority. Even the Maclean kidnapping was friendly enough.”

“You wish
me
to follow the lesson of
Raisuli
?”

“He is a terrible man, I know, capable of the foulest of atrocities. But to the outside world, he takes pains to appear a brigand-hero.”

“It is a face some of his own believe as well,” the Moroccan admitted.

“A century and a half ago, Morocco was the first nation to recognise the United States of America. If you wish to see the reverse happen, to have America formally recognise the Rif Republic, you must take care to appear as gentlemen. Leaving a mountain of slaughtered Spaniards for the cameras is not the way to do that.”

Abd el-Krim tipped his head thoughtfully. “You speak almost as if you wish to see our rebellion succeed.”

“Officially, I regard you as in dispute with the Sultan of Morocco, the political and religious head of your state, for whom I am resident general and foreign minister. But, in fact, do I care if you defeat the Spanish to the north? Why should I? The French Protectorate has problems enough without having to take you troublesome Berbers in hand.”

It was beautifully judged: After a brief touch of outrage, the Moroccan burst into laughter.

As if the sound were an agreed-to signal, Ali picked up the tea-pot and dashed out the leaves. “If the Maréchal does not return,” he said to Abd el-Krim, “they will send soldiers after him.”

“And I must join my brother,” Abd el-Krim agreed. Still, he remained seated, watching Ali pack away the tea paraphernalia. “Today my brother has sent el-Raisuli an ultimatum,” he told Lyautey. “The Sherif is the only barrier to the north, now that we have removed the Spanish from Chaouen. My brother will wish to discuss what we are to do when the man turns us down.”

“I am told that Raisuli is ill. Too ill to travel, even.”

“Then we shall carry him.”

“Raisuli has no power left him, not in the face of the modern world.”

“Raisuli is a Sherif, descended from the Prophet, blessed be his name. While he has breath, Raisuli is a flag to be followed. And, he has a son who is old enough to call the tribes together.”

“A child,” Lyautey said sharply.

“Fifteen, sixteen years? A man. But before you protest, no, I have no intention of harming the boy, no more than I wish harm to the father. I have little respect for Raisuli, but I will respect his blood. As for the son, he is less than nothing. Without the father, he is empty.”

At that, the rebel leader got to his feet. Lyautey rose, too, moving stiffly as he stepped to one side of the fire, facing the shorter man. His spine went straight, then he bent and put his heels together, a formal salute. When he extended his hand, Abd el-Krim grasped the Frenchman’s fingers for a moment, then touched his fingertips to his lips in the Berber gesture of respect.

“Maréchal Lyautey, I shall ponder all that you have said.”

“I hope that we may meet again, under better circumstances,” Lyautey replied.

“Bismillah,”
the Emir of the Rif Republic murmured, and turned to snug up the saddle on his horse.

Ali dug around in his saddle-bag, coming out with an ancient tube of ointment. He tossed it to Idir. “Put the salve onto the Maréchal’s horse,” he ordered the boy. Then to my surprise, he swung into the saddle, clearly intending to ride with Abd el-Krim.

“You’re not coming with us?” I asked—in Arabic, for the Emir’s sake.

“I am needed in the north.”

“But what about—”

“Mahmoud? I trust you will not rest until you find his boot-prints.”

Ali—trusting us? Impossible. “What do—”

I stopped, at a grip on my elbow: I was not seeing something, but Holmes was. I changed my protest into a question. “Where do you suggest we pick up our enquiries?”

“There are but two places to ask: the medina and the road where last Idir saw him.”

“We’ve asked.
You
have asked.”

Abd el-Krim spoke up. “Perhaps the wrong people were asked.”

I opened my mouth to snap at the inane remark—clearly we’d asked the wrong people; had we asked the correct people, we’d have found Mahmoud. But it was one of those drearily obvious statements that yet reverberate in the mind, and shift around, until it became: Perhaps the wrong people were
asking
.

It was crystal clear, the moment the thought occurred: In the intimate quarters of the medina, there could be few secrets. The dawn tremble of a web at Bab Bou Jeloud would ripple across the city, to arrive at Bab Guissa well before mid-day.

But no stranger’s eyes would notice it.

And it had been strangers who had been looking.

I looked up at Ali, perched in the high Moorish saddle. “We will find him.”

“Insh’Allah,”
he said, his voice fervent, before wheeling his horse and kicking it into a gallop.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

W
ith three horses and four people, the natural distribution of weight would have put me and the child together. However, the Maréchal was meditating on his conversation with the rebel—his only remark had been, “Shrewd fellow, that”—and I wanted a private conversation with Holmes. So we started back along the narrow track with Lyautey in the lead, followed by Idir, with me perched behind Holmes, my arms around his waist.

The last time I could recall riding with Holmes on a horse, he had been barely conscious, while I was both thoroughly terrified and terrifyingly young. That had been 1919; this was (so I had been told) 1924. I was no longer his young apprentice. I was his wife.

I felt Holmes’ hand briefly on mine, as if he had shared the thought, and I pulled myself closer against my husband’s back.

“Why did you stop me from asking Ali about returning to Fez with us?” I asked him.

“I did not wish him forced to admit openly that he was standing surety with the Rifi. It’s all very well for a pair of gun-runners to come and go, but after one of them has been witness to a secret meeting? And permitted a would-be assassin to escape? By staying with Abd el-Krim, Ali comforts the leader’s mind.”

“I see.” Which meant that at that very moment, if Abd el-Krim had studied the back riding up the trail before him and decided Ali was not worthy of his trust, our friend could be lying on the ground with a bullet in his brain. With an effort, I pulled my mind off that image. “As to secrecy, it appears that both sides have a plenitude of spies.”

“All sides watch the others, always. The Spanish have eyes in the Sultan’s court, the French have ears in the Spanish headquarters, both slip money to men within the rebellion. And you can be certain that Abd el-Krim has men close to Raisuli as well as Lyautey.”

“Tell me about this Raisuli character.”

“Sherif Mulai Ahmed er Raisuni has spent a long career of cruelty and corruption. He began as a cattle thief. After spending four years chained to a dungeon wall, he blossomed into real brutality. He has tortured and beheaded, played the Spanish for all they are worth, taken various foreign visitors prisoner—men who considered themselves his friends, even after their experiences—and demanded huge ransoms.”

“The slogan ‘Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead’ re-elected President Roosevelt,” I remarked—and why would my memory cough up that bit of trivia?

“Voters do love the image of warships steaming to the rescue of an innocent. In point of fact, Perdicaris had rescinded his American citizenship. Plus, he was a wholehearted admirer of Raisuli—called him a patriot. And far from ‘Raisuli dead,’ the Sherif came out of it with $70,000 and—”

“Seventy
thousand
dollars?”

“
And
dual positions as district governor and pasha of Tangier. Brief positions; he was thrown out a year later because, as he put it, Europeans objected to a few heads stuck on the walls.”

“Raisuli seems to have studied at the feet of Sultan Moulay Ismaïl.”

“To whom he is related.”

“Ismaïl fathered nine hundred children—I’d imagine most of Morocco is related to him.”

“But most of the country would not claim to be its rightful Sultan.”

“Why haven’t Raisuli’s people quietly put him into a hole?” I grumbled.