The Last Heroes

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘And Grunier?’’

  ‘‘That’s where you and your vagrant friend Eric come in. While el Ferruch is taking care of the admiral, you and Fulmar will snatch Grunier.’’

  ‘‘Delightful.’’

  ‘‘I thought you’d be pleased.’’

  ‘‘What’s in it for Eric?’’

  ‘‘He can go home and he can keep his money,’’ Baker said, smiling. It was not a smile that made Canidy comfortable. ‘‘And there’s one more piece to this business that you should know about,’’ Baker went on. ‘‘Monsieur Grunier would much prefer to go home to his wife and kids than help us with the war effort. And he—rightly—fears that they are at risk if he does not play ball with the Germans. As a consequence, we are going to have to help him out with his family.’’

  ‘‘OK, so when do we start?’’

  ‘‘Tomorrow.’’

  2

  The blue 1941 Ford four-door Baker took from the consulate motor pool the next day carried two extra tires and wheels, four five-gallon cans of gasoline, a five-gallon can of water, and a crate of canned food.

  ‘‘That survival equipment isn’t really necessary?’’ Canidy asked.

  ‘‘It may be,’’ Baker said, with one of his rare smiles. ‘‘I’ve been here before. My experience is that when Michelin says ‘dirt, single-lane road’ it’s a euphemism for ‘rocky camel trail.’ I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we need the tires and wheels. I hope we don’t need the food and water.’’

  A few miles outside Marrakech, the road narrowed, and a mile later the paving disappeared as they began to climb the Atlantic slope of the Atlas Mountains. The road was steep, twisting, and before long one lane; and there were long delays waiting for Marrakech-bound trucks, some battered buses, and a very few automobiles to pass.

  It was half past four when they reached Tizi-n-Tichka pass. From there they went downhill in low. It was dark when they reached Ouarzazate, where they would turn off the ‘‘highway’’ onto the ‘‘unpaved dirt road’’ to Ksar es Souk.

  They put up in the Hôtel des Chasseurs, drank two bottles of surprisingly good Moroccan burgundy with a roast lamb dinner, and then went to their simply furnished but clean and comfortable rooms.

  They left Ouarzazate early the next morning, and reached Ksar es Souk shortly after two in the afternoon. The palace was larger than Canidy thought it would be, an enormous structure of what looked like adobe. The whole thing, built of dried mud and narrow flat stones upon a rocky outcropping, looked medieval, a castle out of the Crusades.

  As they drove near, masked horsemen appeared and rode with them as the Ford bucked and lurched over the rocks in the road.

  ‘‘Berbers,’’ Baker said. ‘‘They’re Caucasian—white. There’s a theory that they’re descended from the Crusaders. Notice anything unusual about them?’’

  ‘‘Those are Thompson machine guns and Browning automatic rifles. You’d expect swords and flintlocks.’’

  ‘‘That’s not what I meant,’’ Baker said. ‘‘What I mean is that we’re surrounded. We couldn’t turn back now if we wanted to.’’

  Canidy turned and looked. There were now more than thirty horsemen, all armed, all masked, all riding on fine-looking horses, and none more than twenty feet behind them.

  When they reached the palace, they found a village built around the outer wall. Through a small gate and then a larger one, Canidy saw that there was another wall.

  A few horsemen who had come out to meet them rode through the large gate, but the majority just milled around the Ford when they stopped. Baker made up his mind, put the car in gear again, and drove through the gate.

  Once inside, Canidy saw that they were in a dry moat, and the wall he had seen was the wall of the palace, rising five or six stories above them.

  One of the horsemen dismounted, walked to the car, and spoke to them in French.

  Baker, offering his diplomatic passport, asked for an audience with the pasha of Ksar es Souk.

  The Berber pretended utter incomprehension.

  The standoff went on until a new group of eight horsemen walked their animals through the gate into the dry moat. Two of them wore golden cords on their burnooses, identifying them as noblemen. The noblemen carried shotguns, but the other six were armed with Thompson submachine guns and rifles.

  ‘‘Who are you, and what do you want?’’ one of the two men with gold-corded burnooses asked from under his mask.

  ‘‘My name is Baker,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’m an American consular officer. May I ask who you are?’’

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ the tall, bright-eyed Moroccan asked. Baker recognized the voice of the pasha of Ksar es Souk.

  ‘‘I was looking for the pasha of Ksar es Souk,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’d hoped to have a word with him.’’

  ‘‘Yes? Perhaps.’’

  ‘‘If I’m not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the pasha. Your Excellency and I shared a delightful meal in Paris not long ago.’’

  ‘‘How could I forget, Mr. Baker?’’ Sidi el Ferruch said, removing his mask. His face, though, remained masklike. ‘‘You were just passing through the neighborhood, I gather, and on an impulse decided to drop by?’’ he said with un-moving eyes.

  Baker grinned. ‘‘Not exactly. As I said, I’d be quite pleased to have a word with you. And’’—he paused a moment—‘‘with your friend Eric Fulmar.’’

  ‘‘There is no one here of that name,’’ the noble said.

  In Arabic, the other noble said, ‘‘I know the other one. I grew up with him. His name is Dick Canidy.’’

  Canidy recognized both his own name and the voice.

  ‘‘Get off that horse, Eric,’’ he said. ‘‘Before you fall off.’’

  Fulmar pulled the cloth mask free of his face. He was smiling warmly.

  ‘‘Canidy, what the hell are you doing here?’’

  Then he dismounted gracefully and ran toward Canidy, arms extended, and wrapped his arms around him.

  3

  There was no question that Sidi Hassan el Ferruch would invite the two Americans to stay. He took seriously the teaching of the Koran about treating well the friend of a friend. And besides, he was mightily intrigued by this strange American way of catching his attention. Not wishing, however, for matters to move swiftly, he allowed Canidy and Fulmar only the briefest of greetings, then hustled Eric off to his room, where he would presumably bathe and change. After that he ordered a servant to show Baker and Canidy to guest rooms where they could presumably do the same.

  A meal would be served in the garden in two hours, he announced. And wine would be made available before and during the meal to those who were not of the faith . . . and to those inclined to wink at certain less than divinely inspired teachings of the Holy Koran, he added, with a hint of laughter in his voice.

  Canidy was not surprised when Eric Fulmar came to his room a half hour later, bearing a bottle of wine. What did surprise him was the intensity of his own emotions at seeing Fulmar again. It was some time before he was able to remind himself that he was here on business.

  ‘‘The scenery aside, don’t you get lonely here?’’ Canidy asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ Fulmar said, quickly, defensively.

  ‘‘Well, I suppose the smuggling does keep you busy,’’ Canidy said.

  Fulmar’s eyes went cold.

  ‘‘You know about that, do you?’’

  Canidy nodded. ‘‘Someday the Germans will stop it.’’

  ‘‘So?’’

  ‘‘Then what?’’

  ‘‘You have something in mind.’’ It was not a question. ‘‘What’s your offer, Dick?’’ he asked, his voice hardening.

  ‘‘We need you.’’

  ‘‘So?’’

  ‘‘So when Baker makes his offer, get all you can. His offer will include getting you out of here, home, I mean. Plus fixing things for you with the Internal Revenue Service. ’’

  ‘
‘And what do I have to do to get your man Baker to be so nice to me?’’ Fulmar asked, matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘There’s no free lunch, did I ever tell you that?’’

  ‘‘Thanks a lot, pal.’’

  ‘‘Baker will tell you.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he will.’’

  They sat down for lunch in the shade of some kind of flowering tree that Canidy did not recognize. Servants carried in sizzling chunks of skewered lamb, peppers, and onions. These were drawn off the skewers and laid over beds of steaming rice. There were also plates of tomatoes and mixed fruits and baskets filled with breads. The wine was Château Figeac.

  El Ferruch having sent word ahead, the Americans were already seated when the pasha of Ksar es Souk arrived. He was wearing an elaborately embroidered caftan, and he was accompanied by his huge black bodyguard. A powerful man, Canidy thought to himself as he studied his host. Obviously ruthless. And my age?

  After the pasha had addressed each of his guests, Baker handed him a small package.

  ‘‘I hope Your Excellency will honor us by accepting our gift,’’ Baker said.

  ‘‘Of course, thank you,’’ el Ferruch said, stretching out his hand for the package. He said something in Arabic, and the large black man walked quickly out of the room.

  He opened the package. It contained a wristwatch.

  ‘‘Lovely,’’ he said, with no enthusiasm.

  Baker raised his hand a little as though to call a halt to el Ferruch’s misperception.

  ‘‘Your Excellency certainly will recognize that as an airman’s chronometer,’’ Baker said. ‘‘But perhaps Your Excellency might be interested to note that it is of American manufacture.’’

  That caught el Ferruch’s attention, and he looked at the watch more closely.

  ‘‘It is the very first to come from the factory,’’ Baker said. ‘‘Your Excellency will see that it is serial number one.’’

  ‘‘Extraordinary,’’ el Ferruch said, still without enthusiasm. ‘‘I suppose you’ve made several of these for all the wog chiefs you want to buy.’’

  ‘‘We have ordered two hundred thousand,’’ Baker said, pressing on, ‘‘for our aircrews. The first was presented by the manufacturer to President Roosevelt.’’

  ‘‘Two hundred thousand?’’ el Ferruch asked. ‘‘But this is number one?’’

  ‘‘President Roosevelt said that since it was unlikely he will be flying one of our airplanes, he thought Your Excellency might find some use for it.’’

  ‘‘I am overwhelmed by President Roosevelt’s generosity, ’’ el Ferruch said dryly. But he was impressed. ‘‘When you leave, I will ask you to take a small gift from me to President Roosevelt.’’

  ‘‘I would be honored, Your Excellency.’’

  Soon the enormous black man returned, carrying two objects wrapped in silk and tied with cord. He gave them to el Ferruch, who leaned forward again and handed them to Canidy and Baker.

  ‘‘Please be good enough to accept a small gift of my own,’’ he said.

  Inside the silk wrappings were curved-blade daggers. The hilts of the daggers and their scabbards were of carved silver chased with gold.

  ‘‘I am really overwhelmed, Your Excellency,’’ Baker said.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘And now,’’ el Ferruch said, ‘‘may I suggest we eat? Later we can discuss the reason for your visit.’’

  ‘‘Well, then?’’ Sidi Hassan el Ferruch asked, gazing at Eldon Baker. The dishes had been removed, and except for the fruit, so also was the food. El Ferruch’s long, thin fingers lightly brushed a glass of port that had been old before he was born.

  Baker smiled, cocked an eyebrow, and said nothing. He wants to find out what el Ferruch knows, Canidy thought, before he begins to commit himself.

  ‘‘Well, then,’’ the pasha repeated. This time it was not a question. ‘‘Let’s get to the point. You’re not a visa clerk, Baker. You are some sort of intelligence agent.

  ‘‘And Mr. Canidy, according to Eric, was until quite lately in China flying for the American Volunteer Group there. Somehow or other he is now here, which leads me to suspect that the two of you are birds from the same nest. Beyond that, I’m led to believe that Mr. Canidy’s longstanding friendship with Eric had some influence on the decision to pull him out of China and send him to Morocco.’’

  ‘‘Go on.’’

  ‘‘Next, I don’t see myself as more than peripherally useful to you . . . unless of course you plan an invasion of North Africa?’’ He glanced quickly at Baker, but there was no visible reaction. ‘‘And Eric is a nice boy.’’ Fulmar screwed up his mouth. ‘‘But I don’t see any possible use you could make of him. Morocco, in other words, is only Morocco, Mr. Baker. So tell me what you have on your mind.’’

  ‘‘Your Excellency’s sources are reliable.’’ Baker said. ‘‘I hope the French and Germans aren’t using the same ones.’’

  ‘‘Not if I can help it,’’ el Ferruch said, laughing. ‘‘But I’d be surprised,’’ he said more soberly, ‘‘if they don’t know that the two of you have come to see me. They will then draw conclusions.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure they will,’’ Baker agreed.

  ‘‘That potentially compromises me.’’

  ‘‘But, Your Excellency,’’ Baker said with a subtle but significant edge in his voice, ‘‘you’re already compromised . . . potentially. You and Eric are smugglers. Either the French and the Germans consider you above the law or else you have managed to outwit the French and Germans. Whichever your talent is, it makes you the kind of man we want to work with . . . not to mention, of course, all your other valuable talents.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know whether to thank you,’’ said el Ferruch, ‘‘or sell you to the Germans.’’

  ‘‘If I were in your shoes, I don’t know what I would do either. But why don’t we get down to serious business?’’

  ‘‘You want me to help with an invasion of North Africa? ’’

  ‘‘No, nothing so vast, I’m sorry to say. As far as I know, we have no plans to invade North Africa. Rumor has it, in fact, that we might go into Dakar and push up that way.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe that.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you know your own mind. Meanwhile, a high-ranking French officer wishes to join his brothers who have thrown in their lot with the Allies in their fight against the Nazis. We’d like to help him do that. So we are providing a submarine to transport him to safety.’’

  ‘‘One of the French officers?’’ el Ferruch meditated aloud. ‘‘Which one? Bethouard?’’ He looked at Baker. ‘‘General Bethouard?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Your Excellency, I can’t give you an answer at this time.’’

  ‘‘Do you expect me to help you?’’ el Ferruch said, annoyed.

  ‘‘Well, yes, of course,’’ Baker said. ‘‘But may I continue? ’’

  The pasha of Ksar es Souk waved his hand in imperious assent.

  It was a gesture a barbarian chieftain would make, Canidy observed. But this man was no barbarian chieftain. Most of the time he was as smooth as Talleyrand. Thus, it was likely that by his act he would tip Baker a little off balance.

  ‘‘As you know, our relations with the French are delicate, ’’ Baker said, in no way ruffled. Canidy realized more than ever why he had been chosen for this job. ‘‘If the French discover that we have given aid to a man they perceive as a deserter and traitor, our relationship with France would certainly deteriorate.’’

  ‘‘But if I help him,’’ el Ferruch said, ‘‘my relationship with France would not deteriorate?’’

  ‘‘If the French discover you have given aid to him, sure. But, as I said, you are a man of many gifts and talents.’’

  ‘‘And if I help you—in return . . . ?’’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘‘I’m sure you have needs.’’

  ‘‘Not really, Mr. Baker. My major needs are taken care of.
And I have few minor needs. Though naturally I’m not completely satisfied. A week alone with Greta Garbo would be pleasant. Or, more practically, I imagine your country has the resources to irrigate the desert you can see from your bedroom windows.’’

  Baker paused reflectively. ‘‘Well, Your Excellency,’’ he said, ‘‘you could probably irrigate a good piece of it for $100,000.’’

  ‘‘Done,’’ Sidi el Ferruch said.

  ‘‘There is one other thing,’’ Baker said. He pulled out of his pocket the photo of Grunier. ‘‘I need a double for this man. It doesn’t have to be an exact twin. Just a rough approximation. ’’ He gave height, weight, hair, and skin color. ‘‘And if the double should vanish, he should not be missed.’’

  ‘‘What’s this all about?’’

  ‘‘We have an agent—someone who matters to us—who appears to have been compromised. He’s helped us considerably, and we don’t want to take chances with his life, especially now that there is a submarine available for the French officer.’’

  ‘‘You won’t tell me who he is?’’

  ‘‘No. He is French, and he works in a strategic industry.’’

  ‘‘What is that?’’

  ‘‘The phosphate mines.’’

  ‘‘I see. And?’’

  ‘‘He has a family in France. If it were to become known that he had defected to us, reprisals would be taken against them. But if he were to be, say, robbed and murdered by hoodlums and, as it were, left in a gutter, no harm would come to the family.’’

  Jesus Christ! Canidy thought. Eldon Baker, charming diplomat, was simply going to have some guy off the street done away with! Shocked in spite of himself, Canidy said nothing.

  ‘‘Of course, and then?’’ el Ferruch asked.

  ‘‘There is one other man who must absolutely be on that submarine.’’

  ‘‘Who is that?’’

  ‘‘Eric Fulmar.’’

  ‘‘I don’t see why. I like him, and we’re useful to each other. . . . We have talents in common.’’ He smiled, and reflected a moment, then went on. ‘‘And what possible use is he to you? One more soldier in uniform doesn’t make a difference, does he?’’