The calf-length garment, designed to be worn over her corps trousers and boots, felt like an old ally, and aroused a rush of sensations. She closed her eyes and heard her comrade Beverly’s melodic laugh, tasted Bovril’s strong beefy flavor, smelled the pungent aroma of carbolic acid soaps, and felt the rumble of not-too-distant artillery fire. She exchanged her walking shoes for her stout pair of high boots, equipped with a knife sheath. She tucked her trouser legs inside the boots to hide them, and slipped her hunting knife into the sheath. Most of the francs went into her pocket; a few into the carpetbag along with a packet of coffee, a tin of matches, and a compass. The flashlight went into her camera bag.
I’m ready for you, you sons of hyenas. To perdition with Deschamp . The man would only claim she had typed the note herself. No, she’d head to Marrakech alone. She snatched up her carpetbag as well as her canvas camera bag and headed out only to stop abruptly at the door. Think, she told herself. If she left in broad daylight, Deschamp would stop her. She’d better wait for dark.
Jade dropped her bag by the door and paced the room, feeling very much alone when, on the third pass, she realized she didn’t need to be. She’d wire Beverly and her husband, Lord Avery Dunbury, in London, where they awaited the birth of their first child. Avery had connections everywhere. Surely he’d be able to enlist someone here to come to her aid. Jade wrestled for a moment about also sending a wire to her father on their ranch in New Mexico and decided against it for the time being. There was nothing he could do besides worry, and she wasn’t sure she could reach him, anyway, since he’d be up in the high pastures, making the rounds of the flocks.
She sat down at the desk to compose her message to Bev and Avery. Would Deschamp find out? Probably, if he was having her tailed. Might as well make it difficult for him. Wonder if he reads Swahili? How in the world do you say “kidnapped” in Swahili?
After a moment’s reflection, she settled on the following message: Mother stolen. We are suspects in murder. Going to Marrakech. Reply as received here. Later messages to mission there. She signed it with her Swahili name, Simba Jike.
Jade frowned. If Deschamp did see this, he’d know she’d gone to Marrakech, but she couldn’t conceive of a way to disguise the city’s name and still get the information to Bev and Avery. Then she remembered that the imperial city stood just north of the Atlas Mountains. Jade burned the first paper, took another blank sheet, and rewrote the message, disguising Marrakech as “the red city holding up the world.” She hoped they’d look at a map and make the connection. Of course what they could do, Deschamp could, too. Well, she had to try something. She just wished her Arabic was better to help her enlist the aid of one of the area children.
She took a seat on the hotel’s lower terrace and ordered coffee, sipping as she watched the assorted Moroccans parading in front of her. Of particular interest was a boy about eight or nine years old selling oranges. She watched him accost several tourists like a natural-born salesman. He spoke French!
“Here,” she called to him in French. The boy trotted over with his basket of fruit.
“Fresh oranges, Mademoiselle,” he said, and named an outrageously high price.
Jade offered a fourth that amount, and the boy countered with something closer to half the original cost. Jade picked up an orange, turning it over in her hand as though scrutinizing it. In the meantime, she motioned the boy to lean closer, pointing to the orange. When he did, she spoke slowly and softly in French.
“Can you keep a secret?” The boy nodded once, his brows furrowed as he contemplated her with obvious skepticism. “Good,” she continued. “I want you to take a message to the telegraph office, but you must make it look like you are just selling your oranges somewhere else.” She held up several francs, enough to have purchased several baskets of oranges. The boy, suddenly enthusiastic, grabbed for the money. Jade pulled it back. She could barter, too.
“Only this much now,” she said as she held out a third of the money. “You must go back this evening for a reply. Bring it to me and I will pay you the rest. But you must tell no one. Will you do this?”
The boy didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Jade slipped the money and her message into his hand as the boy gave her a second orange. To an onlooker, it seemed like any other transaction between a foreigner who couldn’t barter and a shrewd Moroccan who knew how to overprice his goods. “Come back here this evening,” she whispered as he left.
The boy didn’t reply. Instead he strolled off, occasionally hoisting an orange and calling out its virtues. But Jade noticed that he didn’t directly approach anyone else to press them into buying his fruit. Instead, he made his way down the narrow street until she lost sight of him where the street made one of its many twists.
Now for the hard part, she thought, waiting. She wanted to call on Madame Laferriere again and convince her to hire out her car for several days, but knew if she went now, Deschamp would find out and put an end to any hope of leaving Tangier. Jade finished her coffee and left the terrace, strolling at a leisurely pace towards the souks. To her right she saw a uniformed man study her. When she stared directly at him, he put his hands behind his back and looked away as though he was merely keeping the peace on this corner. Jade took advantage of his pretense, reached into her pocket, and tossed several coins into the street behind her while he wasn’t looking.
Immediately, a host of beggars and children scrambled after the coins. The ensuing melee drew the officer’s attention from Jade. She slipped into a side street and escaped. Forty minutes later she strolled back to the hotel with a woven bag stuffed full of sundry purchases hanging from one arm. She smiled at the panic-stricken officer and waved, watching him breathe a sigh of relief that she hadn’t escaped during his watch. Later. When you’re less vigilant.
The trick to this waiting game was not to let down her own guard. Jade detested playing the role of prey. Lie still, don’t move, wait it out, then run like hell. Too passive, and often too futile. Her father had taught her to observe all animals and study their behavior, to always think like a predator in dangerous situations. She searched her mind and settled on a smaller predator, the weasel. In this role, she again had to avoid detection by a guard animal, but for a more aggressive reason. Avoiding capture wasn’t the only goal. She had her own prey to pursue. Metaphorically speaking, she intended to slip past the guard dog and across the fence to raid the chicken house. Only the chicken she wanted was in Marrakech. Stealth and camouflage became her key weapons, night her ally.
Jade went back to her room and away from watching eyes. She rummaged in her bag, took out a whetstone, and honed her knife before slipping it back in her boot sheath. Then she studied her hand-drawn map of Morocco, memorizing the new roads, the villages and the French outposts on the way to Marrakech. She would have to be watchful. With an incomplete rail system and limited vehicles, very few tourists pushed as far as Marrakech. That meant she would be more noticeable. It also meant that any non-Moroccans she met might be the kidnappers.
She tried to rest but sleep eluded her, her mother’s face imposing itself every time she began to doze. Once she dreamt of her mother hosting a banker for dinner, convincing him to loan her husband a large sum with very low interest. A second dream showed Inez organizing a school for the pueblo children. In most of the dreams, her mother appeared impatient at Jade for taking so long to show up. Jade got up again and took out the dark blue woven robe and the dozen blue and black scarves she’d purchased from a street peddler.
Eventually her stomach announced it was 5:30. She tossed the robe on the bed, took a seat back on the terrace and made a pretense of watching the people while she devoured stewed chicken with apricots and drank cup after cup of coffee. Patience, she counseled herself, but inwardly she felt like an unexploded shell, ready to blow apart at the slightest provocation. Deschamp’s watchdog still stood on patrol, looking more relaxed slouched against a wall. Jade pretended not to see him while her eyes searched the mi
lling throngs for a smaller form.
Presently the boy appeared, wending his way from person to person, his high voice proclaiming the virtues of his wares in French and Arabic. “Sweet oranges. Golden as the sultan’s throne.”
“Here. I will buy an orange.” Jade saw the young officer watch her for a moment, then relax again when she did nothing more unusual than sniff a couple of the small globes before selecting one. What the man didn’t observe was the paper slipped to Jade with the fruit and the extraordinarily high price Jade paid for that orange.
Jade shoved the telegram into her skirt pocket and calmly peeled her fruit, feeling the paper practically burn a hole in her pocket, taunting her to read it. She resisted. No one should suspect her of doing anything other than obeying Deschamp’s order to remain in Tangier. She finished her orange, then as the muezzin called the faithful to evening prayers, Jade rose and went to her room and ripped open the return telegram. The Dunburys had followed her example and written in Swahili.
Roughly translated it read: “Received. Gathering help. Be careful.” At least she assumed the Dunburys said to be careful. They used hatari, a word that literally meant “danger” but was also used to express the need for caution. Jade had no idea what help they were gathering, but hoped Avery could persuade one of his many contacts to pressure either the American Consulate or the French to help her.
She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. Ten minutes after sunset. Another hour for the deeper darkness to descend. The earlier hours had been difficult enough to endure. This last hour seemed next to impossible. Jade forced herself to remain calm and busied herself knotting the scarves together into one long rope. She had wanted a room with a view of the Kasbah, but her frugal mother had insisted on the less expensive room whose windows looked over the narrow back alley.
“Why pay more to see something from your room when we don’t plan on spending much time there?” she’d said.
“Thanks, Mother,” muttered Jade as she tied one end of her silken rope to a bed post. “You’ve just made sneaking out of the hotel much easier.”
Finally she decided the time was right. Deschamp’s watchdog would assume she’d gone to bed and would relax his vigilance. She slipped on the dark robe, tossed the rope and her carpetbag out the window, and shinnied down the outer wall.
CHAPTER 6
There are two distinct cultures that call Morocco home. In the cities are
the Arabs, who resent the French intrusion into their home despite the new roads,
schools, and developing railroad. They forget they themselves have only resided here
since A.D. 682 and ousted another peoples up into the mountains. Long before their
arrival, the entire Maghreb was peopled by tribes now known as the Berbers.
The history of these people is as mysterious as they are.
—The Traveler
KEEP TO THE WALL, HUG THE SHADOWS. Jade grimaced when she imagined her mother’s reaction. She could almost hear her snap, “You pretended to be a weasel? Will I never see you behave like a proper lady?” Sorry, Mother. I’m a lost cause.
The narrow, dark alley afforded some cover, but it didn’t extend beyond the building adjacent to her hotel. Eventually, Jade would have to risk being seen. She just hoped Deschamp’s watchdog was napping now, preferably in the hotel’s lobby. With her carpetbag tucked under her left arm and with her right hand clutching the robe’s hood in front of her face, Jade paused at the alley’s end. It’s now or never. She stepped into the slightly wider side street and matched her pace with the natives around her.
No one paid any attention to her. To the few Moroccans still about, she was just another body. To the more numerous Europeans enjoying the Tangier nightlife, she represented something to be avoided, a possible beggar or a thief. No one saw her as female since she wasn’t swaddled in white veils.
Jade passed one of the popular tourist watering holes, a French café of sorts that served wine and spirits late into the night. This one attracted a larger number of tourists by purporting to present Moroccan entertainment. She heard the wailing of some wind instrument and the hypnotic, hollow thum dum of a clay drum. Over this background rose and fell a man’s tremulous voice, singing what had the earmarks of a tragic love song. Jade caught the words “lost,” “beloved,” and what might be “soft hair.” Probably singing about his favorite goat.
Through the window Jade glimpsed a swaying form, a woman in baggy red trousers and a gaudy red-and-blue striped coat that hung to her knees. Silver bangles adorned her wrists, ankles, and forehead; those on her wrists jingled as she twisted her hennaed hands about in time to the music. The woman was fully clothed, but managed to hold nearly every man’s attention with her softly undulating hips. Little Egypt all over again.
Jade started to walk away when she noticed Walter Tremaine at one of the tables. He didn’t appear to be particularly interested in the dancer. Instead, he sat staring into his tiny cup of thick, black coffee, lost to daydreams. Jade pulled her hood down lower and moved on.
Once she was past the more popular European sector, she relaxed a little and turned into the Medina and toward Madame Laferriere’s house. The souks, teeming earlier with shopkeepers and customers, sat silent. Only a stray cat trotted by. It must have spotted some prey, as Jade heard it make a sudden dash, its claws scrabbling for purchase up a wooden crate.
Suddenly Jade stopped and hugged the wall. The cat wasn’t chasing a rodent. Something had frightened it. She listened, ears filtering through the silence for anything unusual. Nothing. She waited a moment longer and heard the soft oof of a stifled cough.
Jade sprinted down the narrow street, dodging garbage and the occasional sleeping dog. Each time the opportunity presented itself, she turned left, hoping to eventually double back behind her pursuer. It would have been easier if the streets were straight and built on an orderly plan. In the end, she had only a general idea of where she was, except she had run uphill more often than not.
She forced herself to breathe slowly as she took note of the buildings. Nothing looked familiar. She sniffed and sorted through the myriad smells. Among the scent of dog refuse and lingering sweat, Jade caught the faint scent of spices creeping out from the tightly shuttered shops. Ah! The street of the doctors and herbalists. She listened again for the sound of pursuit, heard none, and slipped back into the street and to Rue de la Petite Maison.
Several lights burned inside Madame Laferriere’s residence. Jade pushed back her hood to expose her full face lest Madame think robbers were afoot, and knocked at the door. From inside came the shuffling of slippered feet.
“Who is there?” the woman asked in French. The voice sounded much older now than it had yesterday.
“Jade del Cameron. I’m an American. We spoke yesterday about your automobile.”
“My automobile? Go away.”
“Wait. I’m sorry you had to report it stolen to the French. I was delayed.” When the woman did not respond, Jade added, “I will be happy to pay you more in recompense.”
The door opened a few inches, but where Jade expected to see a woman an inch or two shorter than herself, she saw a tiny, old, hunched crone. “Madame Laferriere?” Jade asked. The woman nodded. “I must have spoken with your daughter yesterday. Is she here?”
“I have no daughter. And I do not know what you are speaking of. I have not been to see any police. I have been ill. At least I think so.” She rubbed a clawlike hand across her forehead. “Someone left me a gift of new wine at lunch yesterday. I drank it and fell asleep. I did not wake until this morning. Ooh,” she said as she passed her hand across her eyes. “My head still hurts.”
“Madame, may I please come in and talk?”
“No!” She started to shove the door closed, but Jade stuck her boot in the crack and blocked it.
“Then at least let me hire your motorcar again for several days.” Jade had no doubt that someone, the same person who later reported the robbery, had drugged th
e old woman and taken her place yesterday.
At the mention of possible revenue, the old woman pulled the door back a few inches and peered up at Jade. “How much will you pay?”
Jade opened her canvas bag that hung from her shoulder and extracted several francs. “Will this be enough?”
The crone began to reach for the money, then hesitated. “No one has used it for many months. It may not even run anymore.”
Jade smiled, gratified to see that the little creature had a conscience despite her need. “That is no problem, Madame. I am a mechanic. I served France during the Great War, driving an ambulance for the army.”
At the mention of a beloved homeland, now so distant, the old woman’s eyes misted over. “Ah, I would love to go home again and see my country and my nieces.”
Jade pulled out all but a couple dozen francs from her pocket and held out the roll of money. If the amount in the carpetbag was not enough to pay a ransom, and she knew it wouldn’t be even without spending this, she would wire for money from home. Right now she had a better use for it. The Panhard, new, might have cost over ten thousand francs. Now the woman would be lucky to get five hundred, but to Jade it was invaluable. It was worth her mother’s life.
“Take this, Madame. Let me buy the car. If you sell your house, together it should be more than enough to get home again.”
“It is yours, and bless you,” said the woman without counting the bills. She picked up a jerry can from beside the door and handed it to Jade. “There are a few liters of extra fuel in here.”
Jade went into the alley and fastened the can to a sideboard. She’d just finished when a calloused hand touched her shoulders. She jumped and spun around, landing in a crouch, her right hand slipping the knife from its boot sheath. The man in front of her raised his right hand directly in front of his face, palm out, fingers spread. It might have been an expression of peace, but something about the action seemed familiar.
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