“Why are you telling me this?”
“The OSS uses experts, specially trained personnel, university professors-–linguists, archaeologists, anthropologists like Drury—for activities outside regular military channels.”
So that’s what Drury was up to. Lily had heard rumors about some kind of work by Ruth Benedict, Margaret Mead, and Rhoda Metraux-–all former students of Franz Boas, who had founded the department of anthropology at Columbia.
Some of this made sense to Lily now. “You and Drury were Boas’ students at Columbia, weren’t you?” She paused and thought some more. “You’re talking about the National Character Studies, Culture at a Distance projects? The kind of thing we’re working on at the Legation?”
“That’s for the Office of War Information, OWI. I’m talking about the OSS.”
“It’s all alphabet soup to me.”
“Archaeologists like Nelson Glueck work for the OSS.”
Lily knew that Nelson Glueck, director of the American School of Archaeological Research in Jerusalem, was conducting an archaeological survey of Transjordan. “So Glueck’s not just doing a survey?” Lily asked. “He’s mapping out terrain and military installations?”
Pardo nodded. “Right. The job of the OSS is to get ahead of the Army and Navy, lay the groundwork for them. Find out things. Make contacts they can’t.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he expected her to take notes. “The thing is, anthropologists, archaeologists can go anywhere. It’s the nature of their work. Before you came, Drury checked you out. And we’ve done some background work on you. For security clearance.”
“You want me to do a survey?” she asked.
“Not exactly. This is more urgent. You’re on the ground here. OSS headquarters for North Africa is here in Tangier.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” MacAlistair said. “Get on with it.” He leaned forward, his hand on his knee. “This spring and summer, our forces broke the German drive to Egypt. Rommel retreated back into Libya, ending the threat to Suez. Now it’s time to attack Rommel from the west, destroy Axis forces in the Western Desert, push him out of Africa.”
“We have to get a foothold in North Africa,” Pardo said. “Secure bases for intensified military operations against the Axis in Europe. It takes a lot of personnel. We need help—people like you who know the Middle East-–to prepare a local underground for backup.”
MacAlistair stood up. “Drury has been working with the Riffians. They’re ready to step in, if needed.”
“We work through the Moroccan Nationalist Party,” Drury had told her. “They despise the French.”
“If Drury signals them,” MacAlistair said, “they’ll assemble and seize a few key positions, cut off roads, garrisons, deliver guns. The Americans will handle Morocco and Oran, land troops, drop parachutists. We’ll be further east.” He coughed gently and placed his hands on the small of his back, stretched, and coughed again and waited for the paroxysm to finish. “Our convoy’s already left Glasgow and Liverpool. In a few days it will be poised off the coast of North Africa.”
Lily wondered what her place in this was. “Well then, why—?”
“Here’s the point.” MacAlistair moved an armchair closer to the divan and sat down. “Tangier is going to be communications HQ here in North Africa for Operation Torch, relaying messages between Casablanca and Gibraltar.”
Lily stared at the tea glass and curled her fingers around it. “Operation Torch?”
“That’s the code name for the landings in North Africa,” Pardo said. “I’ll be in Casablanca. You’ll assist Drury in Tangier. Think you can handle it?” He paused. “Think about it. If you agree, there’s no turning back.”
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.
The Torch of Tangier Page 7