The Torch of Tangier (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

Lily started back to the Legation. Bits of paper, scuffed shoes and slippers, scraped along the street in her peripheral vision. She needed to think, to ponder what she had just heard, to be by herself before she went up to The Mountain.

Her sandals flapped against the crooked sidewalk.

Assist Drury.

What would she have to do? How would she do it? What would her duties be?

She gave a perfunctory nod to the marine on duty, entered the Legation and started down the hall to her office. The building had the feel of afternoon drawing to an end: doors clicking shut, typewriters stilled, drawers closing.

She opened her office. Korian stood at the desk, rifling through the top drawer.

When she spoke, her voice was cold. “You’ll find nothing of value there.”

He looked up, eyes alert, fingers moving. “I was looking for a paper clip.” He closed the drawer and shoved his hands in his pockets.

What was he really looking for?

“Ask the secretary.”

“The secretary’s already left for the day.”

“So should you.” Lily moved into the room.

“I’m working late.” Korian had edged away from the desk and started out of the office.

“So I see.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said from the door.

After this, Lily vowed, I’ll always lock the desk.

***

The Mekraj was already at the villa, seated in the garden talking to Drury, when Lily arrived.

“We need a new mosque, for the grandeur of Allah,” he was saying. “With a new minaret, proud as a finger, that shows Allah in his uniqueness.”

“With a great golden door,” Drury added.

“Not so. The door must be humble and small, to show that humans are humble and small. But inside must be large, like the glory of Allah. When you cross the line through the sacred door, you bow your head, you wash away the thoughts of the world and enter a different place.”

“You shall have your mosque, you shall have your minaret, tall and square, reaching to the heavens, calling the faithful from every corner of the earth.”

The Mekraj glanced at Lily and MacAlistair standing in the corner of the garden, then back to Drury.

“It’s all right,” Drury said. “They’re working with us.”

“Secrets, secrets,” the Mekraj said. He turned to Lily and MacAlistair. “You cannot know a city until you enter its gates, you cannot know the Moroccan house until you set foot inside, you cannot know a woman until she removes her veil.”

The Mekraj poured the tea, arcing the amber liquid with a flourish into mint-filled glasses on the tray in front of him.

“You see,” he said, gesturing at the tea tray that sat on a mother of pearl inlaid table, “the entire universe is here. The sinia,” he pointed to the polished copper tray, “is the earth, the teapot is the sky, and the glasses hold the rain that falls when it unites the earth with the sky.”

He cradled the hot glass in his hand and sipped, then put it down. “Our warriors are brave.”

“But now they must be like snakes,” Drury told him. “Strike and hide, strike and hide.”

“After the great Moulay Yousef conquered Marrakech,” Imam Tashfin said, “he was inspired by Allah to carry his warriors across the Mediterranean, to bring Allah and make order on the Iberian continent. We can do no less for our own land.”

“Then we can count on your help if need be?” asked MacAlistair.

“A good man keeps his word. When I get the forty thousand francs to help build the mosque, my followers will know we must establish order. They are brave, very brave warriors, the sons of warriors, and men of peace.”

“Forty thousand francs?” Drury said. “Zaid told me fifty thousand.”

“Ah,” said Imam Tashfin. “Forty thousand for Allah and ten thousand for Zaid.”

“Zaid is taking a cut? Zaid is trying to cheat me?”

“Zaid is not an evil man. Not yet. But his soul wanders. It is caught in the twilight between the world of the Romany—what you call the western world—and the world of Islam. He tries to cure his soul with greed. Some day he may slip on the greed and fall into the abyss.”

MacAlistair had been sitting on the low wall that encircled the garden. Now he stood up. “Not Zaid. I know him….” His voice trailed off and he looked into the distance. “I know him well, for a long time, a very long time. He’s earned my trust over and over.”

The Mekraj looked at him and sighed. “Each man’s destiny is different. They can be next to each other, wear the same dress, eat the same food, but their destiny is not the same.”

“We may need your help very soon,” Drury said.

Zaid appeared in the corner of the garden and Lily wondered if he had been listening. He sauntered toward them, his brow furrowed, his hands stiff against his sides.

“We were speaking of making a miracle,” Drury said to Zaid.

The Mekraj held his glass between his thumb and index finger and sipped. “It says in the Koran that a miracle will come out of the West.” He turned to Lily and smiled. “Morocco was always Al Maghreb Al Aqsa, the farthest west, at the edge of the Sea of Darkness. Beyond that, there was nothing.”

“But—” Lily said.

“Ah,” the Mekraj said. “You are going to say that you come from beyond the Sea of Darkness.”

Lily nodded.

“Our wise men tell us that the Prophet knew of the lands beyond the Sea. But in the days of the Prophet, Allah was not known there, it was nothing but a great void until men from Andaluse brought Allah to them. Then the lands blossomed and entered the world.”

“A miracle will truly come out of the West.” Drury leaned toward him. “From beyond the Pillars of Hercules, out of the Sea of Darkness. It will lead you back to the golden age, back to the days when you ruled Andalusia. But you must help.”

“What miracle?”

“Within a week, it will rise out of the sea,” Drury said.
“Bismillah
, in the name of Allah.”

“May it come to pass.
Inshallah
. God willing.” He lifted the hood of his djelaba. “And the fifty thousand francs for the new mosque?”

“In the bank tomorrow.”

“Tell Tariq to come to the Friday mosque. Tell him to bring the fish that you catch in Andaluse.” The Mekraj draped the hood of the djelaba over his fez, enveloping his face in shadow, and turned toward the door.
“Inshallah,”
he whispered. The word wafted after him and floated in the air like the flutter of the djelaba in his wake.

“Well, that’s done,” Drury said.

All this time, Zaid hadn’t moved. He leaned against the pillar, his arms crossed across his chest and watched, thin-lipped and angry-eyed, from the corner of the garden.

“What does Mekraj mean?” Lily asked.

“The samovar we use to boil water for tea,” Zaid said. “You know why they call him the Mekraj? Because they use him to stir things up and boil them over.”

“Zaid—” MacAlistair began.

Zaid turned to face him. “You ridiculed him. You spoke to him as if he were a fool.”

“He’s provincial,” Drury said. “He believes in miracles. Anyway, he‘s getting fifty thousand francs.”

“And a little kif to dream on,” added MacAlistair.

Zaid turned to MacAlistair. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you?” His voice was husky with anger.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

The glimmer of tears poised on the rim of Zaid’s eyes. “All these years I’ve trusted you. And you’ve been laughing behind my back with your cheerful British racism.”

MacAlistair looked away.

“We have to go upstairs to send the news,” Drury said. “Come on, let’s go.”

When their footsteps sounded on the stairs, Zaid started toward the dining room. The button of his sleeve caught in the carved Arabesques of the pillar. He yanked at it, tearing his cuff.

“Damn.” He pulled off the button, frowning, and glanced at Lily. “You heard what they said. You Americans want to take over Morocco. You can’t be trusted, any more than the British. You’re no better than the French,” he said. “No better than the Spaniards. You’re all here to steal our land.”

Chapter Thirteen

“This time, we leave the hotel a different way,” Drury said.

They took the elevator down to the Wine Bar and went through a long hallway to a back door and almost tripped over a heap of clothing and tins piled by the steps.

“What’s this?” Lily asked.

“The British Charitable Society,” Drury told her. “Once a week they collect clothing and canned goods for the bountiful English ladies to distribute to the poor.”

They left by a narrow alley, pushed their way through the crowds of the fondouk market, went down a stepped street, across a square, and through the white arch that led to the Legation.

“Much better,” Drury said.

***

Lily settled at the desk in the musty little office at the Legation while Drury went down the hall to see Boyle.

It was almost noon when Drury returned. “I’ve an appointment for lunch. Have to go. Back around two.”

Before he left, he leaned over her shoulder to read a page of the pamphlet. “Looks pretty good,” he said. “We’ll be finished tomorrow.”

“About Zaid.” Lily hesitated a moment before she went on. “I don’t think you can trust him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, there’s Faridah, for one thing—”

“She’s just a Berber from the Atlas Mountains. Forget about her.”

“And Zaid resents colonialism.”

“They all do. Wouldn’t you?” Drury ran his finger along his upper lip, then nodded. “We can use that, you know. Promise him a free Morocco when all this is over.”

“You think he’ll believe you?”

“What choice does he have?”

Korian’s footsteps sounded in the corridor. He paused, scowling when he saw Drury. Korian’s left eye was swollen and discolored.

Drury eyed him with overt delight. “See you ran into a door.”

“I’ll get you for this.” Korian’s face flushed, and he choked with thin-lipped hatred. “You’ll be sorry you ever met me. I’ll get you for this.” He stomped down the hall and clattered into the stairwell.

“If anyone’s not to be trusted, it’s him,” Drury said in his wake.

Lily nodded. “You’re probably right,” she said and told Drury about seeing Korian with the German, and about finding him rummaging through her desk.

“A few other things about him,” Drury said and sat down. “Did some checking about the effect of the propaganda in the Legation bulletin. According to Boyle, Korian is responsible for distribution. I asked Korian what he does. He said his staff makes a couple hundred copies, slips them under doors and in mailboxes during the night. I made inquiries among merchants and civil leaders, asked what they thought about the bulletin. No one in Tangier outside of the Legation ever heard of the bulletin.” He slapped his hand on the desk. “Korian pocketed the money. Never distributed the bulletin.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Already did it. Confronted Korian. He denied it, of course, said I just didn’t understand the locals. So I punched him in the nose, knocked him down.”

“You what? That’s how he got the black eye?”

Drury grinned, clapped Lily on the shoulder, and swaggered out.

What’s wrong with that man? Lily wondered, and shrugged. None of my business. Time to get back to work.

She sat at the desk and skimmed through the pages. The pamphlet was turning out better than she thought. She concentrated on the work, hunched over the desk, and didn’t notice Adam Pardo until he knocked on the open door and smiled his remarkable smile. “Want to go for lunch?”

“Is it that late, Major Pardo?” Lily looked at her watch. She was beginning to get hungry. “I’ll get a sweater. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know Tangier that well, just arrived a few days ago.”

Lily gave it some thought, remembered he was G2. “I know just the café for you, Major. It’s in the Ville Nouvelle, the new city.”

“My friends call me Adam.” He leaned forward with a puzzled look. He reached for something on Drury’s desk, glanced at it, and held it in his hand.

“What’s that?” Lily asked.

“Some playing cards.”

Lily looked at the cards he held in his hand with a familiar blue and white pattern of circles and leaves and swirls. “How did they get here?”

“They weren’t here before?” he asked.

Had she been so engrossed in the pamphlet that she didn’t notice someone come into the office? “Not that I remember.”

They’re only playing cards, she thought. Nothing sinister. They weren’t even exceptional playing cards.

“When I was a child, we used to collect playing cards and trade them with each other. That’s the commonest pattern, that and the red one like it. They weren’t worth much. But some cards had beautiful scenes, paintings. They were worth more, sometimes as much as five or six of those in a trade.”

“We collected baseball cards. They came in packs of bubble gum. We’d trade them, or flip them, match them against each other.”

“Did you win?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes the cards got bent.”

He turned over the cards in his hand and fanned them out. Lily saw his eyes widen with concern.

“What is it?”

“A dead man’s hand.”

“What’s that?”

“A pair of eights and a pair of aces. It’s the hand Wild Bill Hickok was holding when he was killed. Shot in the back in a saloon in Deadwood, South Dakota.”

“Wild Bill?”

Adam clutched the cards closed and put them in his pocket. “Whoever left them here….”

Lily finished it for him. “Knows about American folklore and knows Drury’s friend Donovan.”

“I’ll get word to Drury,” Adam said, “soon as he comes back. Meanwhile, let’s get some lunch.”

They left the Legation and climbed the steps of the fondouk market, snaking past vendors and fruit sellers.

“You given any thought to what we talked about yesterday?” Pardo asked.

“Curing smallpox?”

“Anthropology. You come highly recommended.”

“By whom?” Lily asked. “Recommended for what?”

“You do that very well.” They had reached the Ville Nouvelle. “You know what I want to talk about.”

They approached the Place de France, just a few blocks past the El Minzah. “Here it is,” Lily said. “The Café de Paris.” They settled at an outside table with a view of the bay. “I had to show you this. I think you’ll be amused.”

Most of the tables at the café were taken. Even the woman with the poodle was there. Germans, Italians, Frenchmen, leaning close, murmuring in low voices, eyes shifting from side to side, scanning the tables over their wineglasses, furtively eavesdropping like the cast of a comic opera.

They twisted their way to an empty table near the door of the café.

“What is this place?” Pardo asked as they sat down. “A union hall for spies? They’re all looking into the soup of the man at the next table.”

“That’s about it, Major. They all come here to make deals, pick up the odd rumor, sell it to whoever pays best.”

“Adam. My name is Adam.”

She inclined her head. “Adam.”

A waiter approached and handed them a flyspecked menu, one side in French, the other in Arabic. Lily scanned the street. Herr Balloon came toward the square, crossing from El Minzah. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised. She watched while he took a seat at a nearby table. He hadn’t noticed her yet.

“There’s an epidemic of black eyes in Tangier,” Lily said. “We’d better leave before we catch it. Let’s get out of here.”

“The idiot behind me is reading your menu.” Pardo, on the verge of laughter, leaned back in his chair, enjoying himself too much to leave. “Look over there.” He indicated a man hiding his mouth while he whispered, his face moving in time to sibilant noises coming from behind his hand. “Trying to act like he’s just picking his teeth.”

Lily smiled as the man’s little finger scratched along the side of his lip. She noticed Herr Balloon watching her.

She put down the menu. “Let’s go.” She stood up.

Adam was still looking around, grinning. “What’s the hurry?”

But she was already wedging her way through the tables.

Adam hurried to catch up. “Something bothering you?” he asked. “That German with the bruised face at the table over there?”

“You said you wanted to talk.”

She started down the street toward the El Minzah. Adam followed. She glanced back at the Café de Paris to Herr Balloon and his cohort speaking to the waiter.

Beyond them, Lily caught sight of Suzannah strolling with an officer of the Guardia Civil, smiling, her arm linked in his. Suzannah’s face seemed lit with adoration. She nodded as she spoke, her head inclined, her eyes intent on her companion, seeming to dote on every word the officer said.

Lily stopped. “Suzannah!”

“What about Suzannah?”

“Over there, with a Spanish officer.”

“Where?”

But they had turned the corner by the time Adam looked back and Suzannah and her escort were already gone.

Herr Balloon still sat hunched over a table, his arms crossed in front of him, frowning at a menu.

“You know him?” Adam asked. “The German, I mean.”

“Not to speak to. He’s been following me.”

“Drury mentioned him. The one who planted the microphone. He follow you yesterday to Lalla Emily’s?”

“He tried. He didn’t get far. That’s how he got the bruises.”

“You knocked him down?”

“He ran into a donkey.”

“And you convinced the donkey to stand still so he could run into it,” Adam said.

“Something like that.”

“Drury told me you have hidden talents.”

“I’m more concerned about Suzannah. What was she doing with the Spaniard?”

“Just plying her trade.”

Adam strode ahead of her, clearing a path around the snake charmers and kebob chefs in the Grand Socco, passing the old cannons in the gardens of the Mendoubia.

“Doesn’t it bother you that she’s in contact with the Guardia Civil?” Lily asked when she caught up with him.

“What’s to be bothered?”

They had reached the Bab el Kasbah and crossed over toward the beach.

“We can walk along the sand.” Adam scanned the street behind them. “No one’s followed us. We can talk there, no one will hear.”

The bright autumn air was brisk and clear with the smell of the sea. A breeze came off the Mediterranean.

“No one will hear what?”

“I’m recruiting you.”

“For what, exactly?”

“You’ll be working with Drury, have to deal with local French authorities across the border, Free French, Colons, Arabs, Berbers.”

A whiff of excitement, a flush of anticipation, stirred her.

“Colons?” she asked.

“French, Spanish, Italians, Colonials. Think you can do it?”

I have no idea, Lily thought.

“Of course I can,” she answered.

Don’t botch it.

“You’ll operate secret radio networks, smuggle arms, build reliable connections with the natives.”

I could do that. I could do that, she thought. Why else am I an archaeologist? Some people grow up and learn to live in quiet houses. Not me, she thought, not me. I can travel to mysterious places, live in lost times, and come away unscathed.

“This is the Near East,” she said. “Will they trust a woman?”

“That’s the point. You have the best cover. You look as innocent as a toy poodle.”

She tried to hide her escaping smile. “You want me to play Mata Hari?”

“Not exactly.”

He stopped, faced her, and watched as the wind whipped against her skirt and blew back her hair. “But I’ll bet you’d be good at it.”

“I’ve smuggled arms before.”

“Don’t tell me about it.”

“Just accidental. I did field work in Palestine. I had a friend in the Hagannah. We came across an arms cache, and—”

Adam glanced at her. “You think that’s news?”

“What else do you know about me?” she asked.

“As much as I need to.”

“Don’t I have to be interviewed?”

“You’ve already been interviewed.”

“By Drury’s friend Donovan?”

Adam nodded.

“It wasn’t much of an interview.”

“It was enough. He knows all about you.”

“Drury told me that Donovan is very persuasive, that nobody can refuse him.”

“That’s about right.”

Lily shrugged and spread out her fingers. “Who am I to break with tradition?”

***

Lily and Adam sauntered toward the water’s edge, each step heavy in the clean sand. Seagulls soared past them, folding and unfolding their wings.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Adam said. “I want you to succeed, not to take unnecessary chances. Not go for glory. Not like Drury.” He paused and kicked at the sand. “This is a job that must be done. Drury is like a child. Somebody asks, ‘You want to get yourself killed?’ and he answers, ‘Of course, of course.’” He turned to face Lily. “What’s wrong with him? An unhappy marriage?”

“Maybe. He married the department secretary. The rumor was that after the wedding, his wife spent more time in the psychiatric ward of Cook County than she did at home. You know how gossip flies around in academia.”

“She was a volunteer?”

“She was a patient.”

“I heard the same, but I wasn’t sure. It’s hard to picture him as Brontë’s Rochester. Any children?”

“That’s another rumor. They say he has a mistress in Paris and had a child with her. It’s possible. He went to Paris every year and stayed in France a while, no matter where he was doing field work.”

“Maybe just to change planes.” He gave a quizzical shrug. “Or buy some Brie at the airport.”

“Sure. He’d stay for a month, sometimes two. That’s a lot of Brie.”

“You think he’s a little crazy?”

“I don’t know. He told me once that he had always wanted to climb strange mountains, stir up tribes, work secretly to destroy an enemy,” Lily said.

She could understand that, dreaming of adventure in exotic places, enmeshed in mysterious intrigue, flirting with imaginary danger, emerging unharmed and triumphant.

“This is different. This is no swashbuckler’s fantasy,” Adam said. “This is real. And lives depend on it.”

A small lizard, a sand racer, scudded past them, leaving its track along the damp sand.

“Lizards are talismans against evil,” Lily said. “You think I should carry one with me? Pin it on my lapel, wear it on a chain?”