Torch of Tangier

by Aileen G. Baron

  “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?”

  “You don’t need talismans.” Adam searched her face. “We’ll make a good team.”

  A sudden gust came off the sea and billowed through Lily’s skirt. She bent over and clasped it with her fingers, holding it down against the wind. “I’m getting chilly. Come on. I know a great restaurant with a terrific view.”

  She led them back to the Bab el Kasbah, up the steps, under arches and up another flight of stairs. They climbed uphill through the medina, through white streets, past houses hidden behind high, blank walls.

  “Tell me,” Lily said, “what else do you know about Drury? He’s a bit of a racist, isn’t he?”

  Adam stopped and pursed his lips.

  “I mean,” Lily continued, “he has a theory that different races developed at different times, and some are more advanced than others. Cro-Magnons are the most highly evolved, according to him.”

  They had stopped walking now, and Adam shifted his foot. “What do you think of his theory?”

  “I once told him that if he mapped the distribution of classic Neanderthals and that of blue-eyed blondes, they would probably overlap. I told him that blue eyes and blond hair are Neanderthal vestiges, that he and I were probably their descendants.”

  “You told him that?”

  She nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was upset. Told me I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “Like a true Neanderthal.” Adam flashed a smile at her and started up the hill. “Drury first came here by way of France in 1924, together with MacAlistair. He had romantic dreams of the Rif coast, the tall cliffs and hidden bays where smugglers and pirates of the Barbary Coast hole up. He was fascinated with stories he heard of the Rif—Nordic tribes in Africa, fighting for their independence.”

  “Is that how he met Abd el Krim?”

  “Not that time. He didn’t get to see the Rif. But he and MacAlistair formed a lasting friendship. Later, they came back to Morocco together, MacAlistair as a journalist, Drury as an anthropologist. Drury did his field work among the Rif.”

  They climbed past the goldsmith shops of the mellah, up and up toward the quiet of the Kasbah.

  “And MacAlistair?” Lily asked.

  “He’s SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, the British equivalent of OSS. When he came here in the Twenties, he was intrigued by the exotic paintings of J.F. Lewis and Delacroix. He wrote pieces for the London Times about the exotic mystery of the Near East, how Delacroix captured the sweep of the garments, the dignity and elegance of the men, the beauty of the women, the architecture, the intricate geometric designs of the fascias and plaster arches. Brits eat up that stuff.”

  “What about Zaid?”

  “Raised in Manchester, half-English, half-Moroccan. He had a rough time in England. At school, they treated him like an outsider. So he came back to Morocco. MacAlistair befriended him. And now, MacAlistair depends on him for everything. I don’t think he could survive without him.”

  Lily thought of the conversation at the dinner table the other night. “There’s a strong bond between MacAlistair and Zaid.”

  Adam glanced over at her and raised his eyebrows. “You don’t really want to know about that.”

  “The love that has no name?”

  “I believe the phrase is ‘the love that dare not say its name’.”

  “And now Zaid does the contacts with the Berbers?” Lily said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Haifa Rif is better than none.”

  “Haifa Moroccan. We have other uses for Zaid.”

  “Such as?” But she already knew.

  “Each person only knows about his or her own job. It’s safer that way. One rank up knows the jobs of those under him and a little more. The only one who has the whole picture is Ike. Maybe Churchill and Roosevelt.”

  “So you’re telling me that a Moroccan in the villa is worth two in the Atlas Mountains.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you trust Zaid?”

  Adam paused, gave it some thought. “He worked for the SIS once, has full security clearance.”

  “He still has it?”

  “Sometimes he champs at the bit, wants to know more than is good for him. He’d rather give orders than take them.”

  They paused at a belvedere perched on a pinnacle of the Kasbah, above the sea wall. They took in the view of the port and the white curve of the beach as far as Malabath.

  “Over there, across the water,” Adam said, pointing, “that gray mass in the mist, that’s Gibraltar. You see that white speck against the haze? That’s the ferry that goes back and forth across the Strait.”

  Swallows swooped and chattered, struggling against the wind, making wide arcs around the sea wall.

  “Allied headquarters are there. The place is honeycombed with tunnels dug in the eighteenth century when the Brits were fighting off attacks from the French and Spanish to maintain control of Gib.”

  They began walking again, strolling leisurely across a white square behind the old fortress of the Kasbah.

  “And you?” Lily asked. “What about you?”

  “I did my field work in Canada, among the Ojibwa.”

  “I mean now. How long have you been stationed in Tangier?”

  “Just got here, the day I met you. Before that, I was in the Western Desert.”

  Lily tensed and stopped walking. Rafi. “With the British Eighth Army?”

  Adam nodded.

  She turned to face him. “Were you at Tobruk?”

  He shook his head. “Attached to them long after that. Wasn’t with them ‘til the second Battle of El Alemein.”

  Still, he might know something about Rafi. “You hear anything?” She leaned forward intently, as if her urgency could compel Rafi to be safe. “Anything,” she repeated, “about who made it out, got away from the Germans?”

  “Only a handful made it.” Adam looked down at the pavement and shook his head. “Eighth Army was decimated when Tobruk fell. Rommel took three hundred thousand prisoners, all the supplies.”

  “Who was in the handful?”

  “Less than four hundred men. Some Coldstream Guards and South Africans managed to break out of the perimeter in lorries. Made it as far as the Egyptian frontier.” Adam thought a minute and smiled. “Some New Zealanders broke through to Rommel’s headquarters, set it afire. Gave Rommel a scare. Those Anzacs are something else. During Rommel’s attack on Alemein, they held the Quattara depression, turned him back.”

  Maybe Rafi went with the Anzacs, Lily thought. Maybe he went on to Cairo. Rafi can’t get in touch with me because he doesn’t know where I am. That’s why I don’t hear from him. I must find a way to let him know I’m in Tangier.

  Adam’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Nothing to worry about. Things are better since Montgomery took over. We’ve provided Sherman tanks. And better anti-tank missiles—4.2 armor-piercing mortars with delayed fuses. We’ll do all right in Torch.” Adam sniffed the air. “Weather’s changing.”

  Lily started up a flight of stairs that led to a restaurant door.

  Adam paused at the landing. “Whatever you decide, I have to warn you. If there’s trouble, you’re on your own.” He pushed the door open and held it. “We’re going inside?”

  Lily hesitated a momen
t. She squared her shoulders, and with a nod, glided through the door.

  “You want the tajine?” she asked and smiled. “I recommend it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bits of paper and flotsam flew before the morning wind, whipping around stalls of the Grand Socco. Berber women hovered over baskets of vegetables like flapping birds and held onto broad brims of hats that curled in the blustery weather.

  “There’s a Levanter blowing,” Drury said. “Rainy season will start soon. It’s getting late.”

  “Late for what?” Lily asked.

  Drury hurried on ahead toward the Legation, while Lily scurried after him. “Late for what?” she asked again before she realized that he was worried about the weather for the landings of Torch.

  He bustled back and forth all morning, from Lily’s desk to his own, no time to talk, collating sections of the report, urging Lily to hurry the final corrections.

  He left the office and Lily concentrated on finishing the report, hunched over the desk. Tired, she paused and closed her eyes.

  Someone’s hands began to knead her stiff shoulders. Drury?

  It felt good. She rested and leaned back.

  The sweet odor of Korian’s pipe, mixed with overtones of garlic and sweat hit her nostrils. She jumped out of the chair.

  “You’re working too hard,” Korian said, smooth and oily. “That’s why you’re so edgy.”

  He leaned over her desk to read what she had written.

  She turned the paper over. “The report will be circulated to all personnel when it’s ready.”

  The swelling around his eyes had softened, leaving only a slight greenish discoloration. His lapel had a hole, charred around the edges.

  “You burned a hole in your suit.”

  “Must be from the pipe. I’ll get it rewoven.” He looked down and brushed at it with the side of his hand. “That’s not why I wanted to see you. I thought we could have dinner tonight.”

  She moved away from the desk. “I’m busy.”

  “Have to wash your hair again?” He tried an unctuous smile. “All work and no play.” He moved nearer and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  She backed away. He edged closer. She could feel his breath on her face, panting, smelling of yesterday’s garlic.

  Drury appeared at the door. He cleared his throat, brandished a fist, and Korian threw up his arms in a gesture of surrender before he scurried out.

  “Thanks,” Lily said.

  “He’s a pea-brained idiot.” Drury closed the door and reached into his pocket. “Time for you to earn your keep.” He handed her a ticket. “Tomorrow you go to Gibraltar. You’ll be leaving on the nine o’clock ferry.”

  “Did Adam talk to you about the Dead Man’s Hand?”

  “He told me. Nothing to worry about. Just some joker trying to frighten us.” Drury began sorting the pages on Lily’s desk. “There’s a leak. I think I know who it is.”

  “You’re not going to do anything about it?”

  “Of course I am. I’m going to use it to our advantage.”

  Lily turned over the ticket in her hand, wondering what she was supposed to do in Gibraltar. “About Gibraltar…” She looked up to ask Drury. But he had already left and closed the door behind him.

  He wouldn’t have answered anyway.

  By four o’clock, Drury had gathered the remaining scattered pages of the report together, arranged them in sections with a paper clip, and typed out a table of contents.

  “We’re done,” Drury said. “That’s it.”

  He carried the draft into Boyle’s office. Lily followed.

  Drury flung the manuscript on Boyle’s desk with a flourish. “Our pamphlet. A masterly work, if I say so myself. With this pamphlet in hand, victory is guaranteed.”

  Boyle put on his glasses, held the battered manuscript at arm’s-length, and looked skeptical.

  “Your office can do the final typing,” Drury told him.

  Boyle placed his glasses carefully on his desk and turned to Lily. “Thank you, Miss Sampson.”

  “About Korian—” Drury said.

  “Glad you brought it up. What about Korian? I don’t take kindly to fisticuffs against people on my staff.”

  “It’s the bulletin he’s supposed to be putting out.” Drury slammed his hand on Boyle’s desk and Boyle sat upright, eyes blinking. “He only gets about twenty copies printed up, doesn’t distribute them to anyone.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” Boyle waved away Drury’s hand and scooted his chair toward the filing cabinet. “I have the invoices. He gets five hundred copies of each issue. We also pay for delivery to all the shopkeepers in Tangier.” Its a scam.

  “You have evidence?”

  “Not yet.” Drury drew a finger across his upper lip and clicked his tongue. “But I’ll get it.”

  “So you decked him. Just like that. Without proof, just on a gut feeling?”

  Drury nodded. “I had my reasons.”

  “This is a venue of the State Department. We have other ways of handling things here. For now, I’ll thank you to get out of my office.”

  Back at his desk, Boyle picked up a pen and began writing furiously on the pad in front of him. Lily noticed he was doodling.

  “Keep a close eye on Korian while we’re gone,” Drury said to him. “We’re taking the next few days off.”

  He left Boyle’s office, pulling Lily along behind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You don’t trust Faridah. You don’t trust me, your friend,” Zaid was saying to MacAlistair. “But you trust a Jewish prostitute.”

  Suzannah was setting the table in the dining room. Adam sat in the garden with a man Lily didn’t know.

  “I trust you, Zaid. I trust you with my life,” MacAlistair said.

  “Well then—”

  “It’s for your own safety, Zaid. Too dangerous for you to know.”

  Suzannah finished at the table and left in the direction of the kitchen.

  “And Suzannah? You trust her?”

  “I would trust almost anyone in the mellah.” MacAlistair strode toward the courtyard.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Zaid said.

  “Maybe he’s right,” Lily said.

  Zaid gave her a grateful look. “Besides, Suzannah probably can’t cook.”

  MacAlistair turned back and took Zaid’s arm. “Of course she can. Bouillabaisse tonight. Tariq brought fresh fish when he came into town today. Couscous tomorrow.” He gestured in the direction of Adam and the stranger on the patio. “Shall we wait in the garden?”

  The stranger stood up with an expectant smile.

  “My nephew,” MacAlistair said. “Barrett Russell.”

  He had a trim British moustache and dark hazel eyes.

  “This is Lily,” MacAlistair said. “I told you about her.”

  The Englishman reached for Lily’s hand and clasped it in both of his. “My friends call me Russ.”

  “Russ works in the governor’s office in Gibraltar,” MacAlistair said. “Comes over from time to time on government business.”

  “Been there since ‘39,” Drury said. “Knows Gib inside and out.

  Suzannah came back to the dining room, rosy-cheeked with the heat of the kitchen, carrying a steaming tureen of bouillabaisse. The aroma of garlic, fresh tomatoes, seafood and cilantro wafted behind her.

  “Ah. I smell something fishy,” Adam said.

  “Fishy?” Zaid said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You people are too sensitive,” Drury said, waving Zaid’s words away as if he were shooing a fly.

  “You people? You people?” A current of impatience emanated from Zaid, palpable, filling the garden. “To you, Berbers are animals in a zoo. You come here to observe us in our natural habitat.”

  Suzannah placed the tureen on the table in front of MacAlistair’s setting and listened from a corner of the dining room.

  “I forgot.” Zaid’s tone had turned to anger. “You’re more in
terested in the Rif, the blue-eyed, blond Arabs.” He added Lily to his disdain with a sweep of his arm. “Blue-eyed blondes like her are the only people you can trust, aren’t they?”

  Embarrassed, Lily looked away toward the dining room. Suzannah studied them, eyes narrowed in thought.