The Torch of Tangier (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lily steadied herself and turned around.

Zaid loomed inches away from her. “I’ve been looking for the code box. Drury said he hid it when I asked him where it was.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He said I didn’t need to know. That was before—”

“Before he was killed?”

Zaid held out his hands in explanation. “He wouldn’t tell me. What else could I do?”

Her spine prickled. The light from Lily’s headlamp fell on his pantaloons. Bright orange. A shudder of fear ripped through her, remembering the flash of orange she had seen disappear down the corridor before she discovered Drury’s body.

“You were in the hall that day. Running away.”

“What hall?” His eyes narrowed, his jaw worked. “What day?”

“At the El Minzah. The day Drury was killed.”

“Oh, yes. Had a feeling something was wrong.” He came closer, leaning into her. “That’s why I came to help you. I only had your safety in mind.” He stopped, licked his lips, narrowed his eyes and looked off into the corner. “I wasn’t there that afternoon. Must have been some other time.” He reached out his hand. “The box is too heavy for you. Let me carry it.”

She ducked and her lamp shone on the plaster stuck on his cheek.

“Cut myself shaving,”
Zaid had told her.

“Skin and blood under Drury’s fingernails,”
Periera had said.

Zaid backed away, his face disappearing into the shadow. The light on his helmet trembled, swept the cave, focused on Lily.

“Hand over the box,” he said.

She gripped it in her right hand. She could feel the book inside shift as she moved her left arm forward, hesitated, then swiftly pulled the plaster from his cheek and sprang back.

“What’s the matter with you?” His fingers went to his cheek, hiding the cut.

But she had already seen the two deep scratches, like claw marks from a cornered animal.

“Cut yourself shaving?”

“Give me the book.”

“Drury scratched you. Before you killed him.”

“I told you. He wouldn’t give me the book.” He stood in front of her, his hand reaching out. “Neither would MacAlistair. Now you. You know what happened to them.”

“You killed MacAlistair for the code book? He trusted you.”

“Trusted me? He tolerated me. I was just part of his collection of exotica, a native, a colonial, to be condescended to, treated like a child. Drury too. All you Europeans are alike. You take up the white man’s burden, tell us we don’t know how to govern, set up protectorates for our own good, then rob us.”

“We’re Americans, not Europeans. We’ll free Morocco.”

“No you won’t. You’ll tell us we can’t govern ourselves, like all the others. You don’t understand. My ancestors ruled the civilized world while yours were still swinging from the trees.”

He moved closer and she backed away.

“I spent part of my childhood in England, where they sent colonials like me to special schools where they taught us nothing and then said we couldn’t learn. We had primitive minds, they said.”

She tried to step around him but he blocked the way.

“Think, think,” he said. “Where would your mathematics be, and your fine equations in physics if you had to calculate using Roman numerals, if you had no zero? Where did European science come from, with words like alcohol and chemistry and algebra? Before we taught you how to think like scientists, even your kings lived in unwashed ignorance and darkness.”

He reached out and stroked her chin. “Be a good girl. I need the book.”

She backed away. “It won’t do you any good. You don’t know the code.”

He held out both hands now. “I already know it, pieced it together from decrypts scattered on the floor.”

He’s lying. Drury always cleared up, left nothing behind.

“Nothing to be afraid of.” His breath came in short gasps, straining with controlled anger. “If you give me the book, I won’t hurt you.”

Lily stood perfectly still. The only other sound was the vibrating pulse of the rising tide slapping against rocks in the lower cave.

He came closer. “Give it to me.”

She slid to the side when he grabbed for her arm.

The noise of the surf echoed through the chamber.

“Give me the book. Save yourself trouble.”

He ran his finger down her throat. “How could I hurt you?” His finger traced her neck, gently circling the small depression where the hamsa rested, then up her throat again to her chin.

“The Hand of Fatimah.” His fingers clasped the hamsa and pulled. “Supposed to keep away the evil eye. You believe it?”

Lily felt the chain tug against the back of her neck. “It was a gift.”

“You’re trembling.”

She felt the pressure of his fingers on her neck, felt his breath against her cheek, the warmth of his lamp on her forehead.

A chill crept along her spine. The pressure increased.

Below them, the roiling sea was as loud as a train rushing through a tunnel.

She threw the box behind her on the floor of the cave. He dropped his hand and moved to pick it up. She kicked it away.

She drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over. She kicked at him, heard the thump as her foot connected with his shin.

He stepped backward to steady himself, his foot at the edge of the funnel. The ground collapsed beneath him. She watched him sink, stunned, into the hole toward the lower cave.

He gripped the side of the funnel. The soil crumbled under his fingers. He shouted.

“Get me out of here!”

She began to reach for him, sensed the ground soften beneath her feet, and jumped back.

“Help me.” Zaid’s voice was almost a whimper. “I can’t swim.”

She picked up the code box, giving the funnel a wide berth as she ran toward the entrance to the cave. Behind her, she heard Zaid’s cry as he plummeted to the rocks below.

She closed her eyes and caught her breath. Don’t look down, she told herself. But still, she imagined him splayed on the jagged rocks, his head split open, the pink froth of the surf foaming around him, the rising tide billowing against his legs.

From below, someone barked orders in Spanish. She turned off the light on the helmet and started down toward the Hillman.

Through the fog, she made out two soldiers from the Guardia Civil at the car. One had opened the door to look inside. The other inspected the license plate.

Flattening herself against the rock face, Lily moved down the slope. The shoulder of her djelaba caught on the roots of a tree growing out the of cliff face. She shrugged out of it and kept moving.

One of the soldiers looked up, pointed, said something to his companion. They started up the path toward the caves.

Lily hid in the crevasse of an outcrop.

The first guard lifted his rifle.
“Alto, alto,”
he called out.

She saw the flash of a gunshot trajectory, sniffed the acrid smell of cordite that drenched the mist. Behind her, the djelaba convulsed, seemed to dance in agony from the impact of the shot.

Running, the guards passed within a few feet of her in the fog, their footsteps crunching in the dirt.

Lily tried not to breathe.

They disappeared into the cave. Lily dashed for the car.

No keys. Zaid had the keys.

It couldn’t be too difficult to start. Drury took less than a minute.

She slid to the floor under the steering wheel and turned on the beam from the helmet.

Multiple wires under the dash seemed to shift and coil like snakes with each motion of her head. She heard the soldier’s voices again and footfalls along the path.

They’re out of the cave. Coming toward me.

Which wire connects with what?

Steps sounded on the path, walking, then running, louder and louder, closer and closer. The guard’s flashlight arced into the mist, shone and disappeared.

Lily turned off her light and scrunched lower. There must be another key. Maybe the glove compartment.

A light reflected against the back window. Lily groped for the glove compartment and fumbled inside. No key.

Nothing but the rusted screwdriver.

The explosive sound of gunfire smashed through the darkness. Bullets pinged against the rock wall, ricocheted against the car. It rocked. She covered her face with her arm. A shatter of broken glass spilled over her, stinging her hand.

In desperation, Lily grabbed the screwdriver, jammed it into the ignition, and turned it.

The motor started.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Still scrunched below the seat, she twisted to reach the clutch. She put the car in gear and stretched to grip the choke.

The car inched down the slope.

Footfalls echoed behind her, pounding on gravel. Shouts of
“Alto, alto,”
bellowed in her wake.

She scrambled onto the seat, bent over, keeping her head low, below the dash. She grasped the door handle, cracked it open a few inches. Focusing on the ground, she rolled down the gravel path through the cloud of night.

A siren began to caterwaul. Behind her, a blur of headlights reflected in the fog.

She maneuvered the Hillman close to the cliff face and into a small indent. She waited, holding her breath, hiding in the dark vapors of the night, the cold and damp penetrating her bones, making herself small on the seat as if that would render her invisible.

If she turned off the motor, she couldn’t start it again.

Let it idle. Maybe the shouts and sirens would drown it; maybe the crashing surf will mask the noise.

A patrol van sped past, sirens whining, multi-colored lights flashing through the whiteness of the night.

It worked. They didn’t see the Hillman, didn’t hear the motor.

They’ll come back. What then? Think.

There’s a turnout along here.

The reflection of red from the taillights of the patrol van receded.

So long ago since she had been here. Think. A few yards farther. Near where Suzannah’s taxi had parked.

Slowly, carefully, Lily eased the Hillman forward and crept into the turnout.

She heard the whine of a motor pushing up the hill and ducked lower, huddled on the seat, hoping they wouldn’t see. Her leg scraped against the glass shards on the floor and she jerked it back.

Approaching headlights whitened the night haze. The van passed and droned up to the headland.

In the reflected glare of their headlights, she saw blood caking over the slash on her hand, a new cut on her leg.

And then darkness.

She heard the thump of a slammed door cushioned by the fog, heard calls and shouts resound. She pulled herself up, glanced through the rear window. Halos of light moved in the blank whiteness that spread over the crest of the hill.

Could they see her through the curls of mist? She edged onto the road again, coasting into the white night. Could they hear the crunch of wheels on the gravel?

In front of her was nothing, the emptiness of haze. She was driving off the edge of the earth. She gripped the steering wheel and guided the Hillman, one hand on the partially opened door, watching the wheel of the car hug the edge of the macadam.

No one seemed to follow. She picked up speed, still watching the ground and kept going.

A car approached from the left, its lights shimmering through the foggy night. A crossroad?

She guided the Hillman to the side of the road. The headlights were closer, more intense.

Stay calm. Count to ten.

One. Two. Headlights brighter with each second. Still she waited. Five. Six. She listened for the oncoming car, steeled herself for the crash, arched her back, tensed her legs. Nine. Ten. The light receded. No sound but the mournful blare of a distant foghorn.

Again the headlight reached out of the night and receded. Again the foghorn sounded, blanketed by the mist that surrounded her.

Lily let out her breath. Only the lighthouse on Cape Spartel.

She sat up, steered the car back to the center of the road, turned on her headlights, and peered into a wall of fog. She switched on the brights. The impenetrable whiteness of a netherworld loomed ahead.

She dimmed the lights and continued through the tunnel of fog, still monitoring her progress through the half-opened door, mesmerized by the whirl of tires along the macadam.

The whoosh of tires against the dampness of the road reminded her of the sound of the funnel collapsing, the floor of the cave crumbling away from her.

Zaid screaming, sliding down to the sea.

Again and again, against the blank whiteness, an image of Zaid splintered on the rocky outcrop at the bottom of the cliff haunted her.

Sacrificed to the gods of the sea.

Her teeth clenched, she shivered in the cold wind that blasted through the shattered windshield. Don’t think of it. Have to get back to Tangier to light the Torch.

The fog lifted enough for her to close the door. She had almost reached The Mountain. She leaned forward against the steering wheel, moving cautiously through the darkness, peering at the road as it wound down the hill, feeling the damp wind sharp against her face.

Giddy with exhaustion, she began laughing at the image of driving through the Ville Nouvelle with a splintered windshield and a car raked with bullet holes, and couldn’t stop.

What’s wrong with me? I saw a man fall to his death and now I’m laughing.

Shaking.

Sobbing.

Take a deep breath.

What next?

Have to ditch the Hillman.

Where?

She had reached the villa. She parked the car in the drive and looked up at the bare windows.

Was Faridah sleeping in the quiet night, dreaming of her new luxuries, waiting for Zaid’s return? Did she know he was sprawled on a bloody altar, an offering for someone else’s safe passage through the Straits?

From the back seat, Lily retrieved the code box and started downhill toward the Legation on foot. She kept to the side of the road, clutching the heavy code box, the cut on her hand throbbing with the tightness of her grip.

Twice, cars going up The Mountain sped by her. She hid near the bushes and waited in the shadows. One car, full of revelers singing a sentimental German song, swerved toward her and away again, and she panicked, almost began running, until she caught herself and moved deeper into the brush.

Have to get back to the roof of the Legation, no matter what.

When the car passed, she moved out onto the side of the road again. She hugged the code box to her chest.

The turn of the war sits in the crook of your arm.

The fog dissipated. Lily had almost reached the Mendoubia when dawn broke, bright and clear, bathing the medina in a rosy glow.

Huddled over the code box as if carrying a stack of books to school, she found her way to the Legation.

Inside were quiet sounds, the creaking of old wood in the morning, stirrings in another part of the building. Sounds of wakening—water running through tired pipes, the smell of coffee.

Boyle.

She laid the code box on her dresser, locked the door with the old brass key, and went into the bathroom to wash.

She cleaned the cuts on her hand, laid a fold of gauze over them, and, awkwardly holding one end with her teeth, anchored the bandage with a plaster.

She thought of the poster in Drury’s office in Chicago that she had seen so long ago, “What matters most is how you see yourself.”

In the mirror above the sink she saw a tiger, tawny-haired and cat-eyed.

She turned off the tap and returned to the bedroom, still clutching the soiled towel. She dropped it on the bed, picked up the code box, and climbed the stairs to the roof. She opened the door and unlocked the shed. The flag was already raised, snapping in the wind, the metal hasps ringing as they struck the hollow pole. She sat at the table by the transmitter and lifted the heavy books out of the box.

Today was November 7. She turned to page 1107 in the
Bureau of American Ethnography Report XXXV
, reached for the graph paper and spelled out a message for Adam in code.

At eight a.m., she turned on the transmitter and sent the dispatch, “Have cookbook with recipes for blueberry pie. Can start baking.”

A key fumbled in the lock on the door that led to the roof.

The Marine?