Torch of Tangier

by Aileen G. Baron

  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?

  Chapter Thirty

  The door handle rattled, stopped, and started again. It couldn’t be the Marine. Jessup was his name. The flag was already raised.

  Lily rose from the table and closed the shed, heard the person jiggle the handle of the door to the roof, scratch at the lock.

  Jessup had a key that worked.

  The door banged and shook; the frame buckled.

  She stepped back, listening, alarms clanging in her head.

  The door exploded open.

  Zaid stood on the landing, glowering at her, spewing hatred, eyes afire. Dried blood trailed down the side of his face from a gash on his forehead.

  “The code book.”

  She took another step back.

  He lumbered onto the roof, dragging his right leg. He elbowed the door shut and waggled his fingers in a gesture of demand. “The book.”

  Fear surged through her. She moved away, felt a scream erupt. He lunged, clamped a hand over her mouth and clutched her wrist, breath heavy against her face.

  Got to get away from him. Get away. She kicked at him, grabbed the fingers that dug into her cheek, forced them back, back, until she heard a snap.

  He grunted, dropped his hand.

  “Bitch.”

  She spiraled to pull away, hit the gash on his head with the back of her hand. He winced. Blood trickled into his eye. He swiped at the cut with the back of his hand, smeared blood across his forehead.

  Like finger-paint.

  She moved out of reach.

  He lurched toward her, snarling, seized her arm with his left hand and twisted it.

  She struggled, writhing, thrashing through a fog of pain. She kicked and missed and kicked again. She bit his sleeve and spit out the sour-salt taste of the cloth.

  She recoiled, and slammed her knee upward between his legs.

  He groaned, doubled over, stumbled back. Her leg shot up again, trying for a second kick and he snatched her ankle. She fell onto her back, clutching air.

  He dove at her. She rolled onto her side and he crashed into her shoulder, panting.

  The Teletype clattered in the shed. He relaxed his grip, rose, and shambled toward the sound. She struggled to her feet.

  Block his way.

  He smirked as if he had won.

  She moved between him and the shed.

  He kept coming, growling, dragging his foot, swinging his arm.

  She backed away, heartbeat thumping in her ears, heaving in her chest, choking in her throat, too afraid to scream.

  A wild howl rose from him.

  She inched further back, arms and legs heavy with fear. He circled her, his right hand limp, his left hand flexing.

  He lunged at her.

  She dodged when he dove forward. He careened against her.

  Can’t let him stop Torch.

  She ran at him, head down, rammed him. Pain jarred through her as her shoulder slammed into his gut.

  The impact knocked her off balance. She scrambled to her feet and slammed into him again.

  He staggered back, back, arms waving, and disappeared off the edge of the roof.

  A cry of terror trailed behind him.

  She heard a thud, an animal sound almost like a sigh.

  Then silence.

  Panting, terrified, she crept to the edge of the roof and peered into the alley. Zaid lay splayed on the cobbles, his head at an odd angle, blood seeping from his nose and gaping mouth.

  She froze, unable to move.

  This didn’t happen.

  He looks like a clown in his bloody pantaloons.

  No one in the building across the way. Shutters on the windows closed. No one in the alley except Zaid. The only movement, on the balcony opposite, a tag fluttering in the wind that was tied to a propane tank.

  A shudder of cold passed through her, rising up her spine. Her teeth began to chatter. Her arms trembled. She crossed them over her chest and grasped her elbows. She pulled tighter, and still her arms quivered.

  She pulled back from the edge, her shoulder throbbing, the skin on her arm prickling where Zaid had grazed against it when he hurtled off the roof. She tripped on a clay pot; it toppled over and cracked, spilling dirt along the edge of the roof.

  She stumbled against the flagpole, felt it vibrate, metal fasteners ringing against the pole as the flag snapped in the wind.

  Got to get away from here, get downstairs.

  She crossed the roof to the door and paused at the landing. She thought of Drury, of MacAlistair.

  Zaid had killed them. He would have killed me.

  She went back to lock the shed and tried to lock the door to the roof. The shattered doorframe blocked the head of the bolt.

  The damn door won’t close.

  She pocketed the keys and hesitated on the landing, exhausted. I killed a man.

  “Killed him in battle,” she heard Raffs voice say. “You did what you had to do.”

  Then she started down the stairs, clutching the banister.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Korian stood in the corridor outside her office, sucking on his pipe. “You look awful. What happened?”

  “I tripped on the stairs. I think I hurt my shoulder.”

  Go away, Korian.

  “I thought I heard something,” he said. “A commotion in the alley behind the Legation.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I was on the other side of the building.”

  Korian leaned one elbow against the wall and drew on the pipe, saturating the hallway with his smarmy presence. Lily’s eyes began to tear.

  He waved the other hand vaguely in the direction of the street. “Something’s going on out there.”

  They found Zaid?

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Leave me alone, Korian.

  Korian leaned toward her. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “I don’t leave until tomorrow.”

  “I’m leaving myself. Got a new appointment. We could have dinner tonight to celebrate.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Have to wash your hair again?” He raised his head and sniffed. “You certainly keep a clean head of hair.”

  She tried to duck into her office. “I don’t have time.” There w
as no way around him. “Have to pack.”