‘See to it this woman leaves the building.’
The sergeant saluted and, throwing a leering glance at Evangeline, grasped Tamaya by the arm. Tamaya pulled loose, scowling.
‘You have no place here,’ Ramirez said, his voice hard and measured. ‘You are a servant. Go back to the house of Don Ferdinand where you belong. This lady will no longer have need of your service; either now – or in the future.’
A sudden flush of fear showed in Tamaya’s face. ‘Mademoiselle?’
Ramirez jerked his head towards the door. ‘Put her out on the street.’
The sergeant went to take hold of her again but Tamaya put up a hand to stop him. ‘Yo voy,’ she said angrily. ‘I am going.’
Ramirez waited without speaking until the door was shut and they were alone. ‘Sit down.’ She did as instructed then waited to hear what this was about.
‘There has been a complaint that you assaulted a woman, or rather your servant did.’ He inclined his head slightly sideways and screwed up his mouth. ‘But no matter, as mistress you are responsible for your servant’s actions.’
Evangeline shook her head. ‘No, señor. It was I who was attacked. My servant stepped in to defend me.’
Ramirez pick up a loose wad of papers from the table where they lay. ‘Statements, señorita, statements. Witnesses.’ He dropped them in front of her. ‘Fourteen people say here that Señora Rojas was knocked to the ground – you shouted obscene abuse at five other women. It is also reported that you shouted out against El Caudillo and accused him of being a dictator.’ He sat back in his chair and waited.
‘These are lies, señor!’ Evangeline glared across the table at Ramirez, but even in the blindness of her anger she knew the odds were being piled up against her.
‘So you say, señorita.’ Ramirez showed no emotion; he just spoke what he had to say. For him, her tragedy was a mere formality of his daily routine. The plight of the accused was not his concern; the enforcement of the law was his business. ‘You will go before a magistrate tomorrow morning where the charges against you will be considered, and, if so decided, you will be sent for trial at a future date. Is there anything you wish to say to me?’
‘I am innocent of these things, señor. These charges are lies. These people hate me.’
Ramirez was unmoved, his face straight and formal. ‘Do you know how many times I have heard that said, señorita? It is not a defence.’ He stopped speaking, knowing that for the moment her emotions would be overwhelmed, her mind stuffed with cotton wool.
It took a little time before she was able to gather herself and even when she did she found it difficult to speak. Her mouth felt dry and brittle. The words that came out were lame. ‘What will happen to me?’
‘That is not for me to say, señorita. The charge of assault …,’ here he shrugged as if to dismiss it, ‘… this is not so serious, most likely a fine.’
Her feelings lightened; she had money, she could pay a fine, no matter how unjust. If it got rid of the problem she could live with that. She had already made up her mind that she would move away from this place. José was right; she needed to be in a larger town or, better still, a city, away from the petty spitefulness of these people.
‘For the charge of speaking out against the government and El Caudillo, that is much more serious.’ Her senses started to numb again as she waited on his words.
‘You are a foreigner; that does not help. If the judges of the tribunal consider you are not a foreign agent here to foment insurrection, you will most likely be deported.’ He wrinkled up his nose and sniffed hard. ‘If they believe you are a conspirator, they can order your execution. That is the most likely sentence.’
Evangeline’s mind froze. Her brain ceased to function. She almost fainted and grasped the table to steady herself. Inside her body there was turmoil. The image of a firing squad tore through her mind in vivid colour. She said nothing. Ramirez, too, remained impassive. He knew what was going on inside her head; he had seen it all before. In the coming days, as it sank in, she would gradually degenerate; fall apart. He quite expected her to wet herself; they usually did.
Out on the street, Tamaya tried to gather her thoughts. She had to do something; she could not just return to the house of Don Ferdinand as if nothing had happened. She crossed the road, then stopped on the far side and looked back at the building she had just left. She had no idea why her mistress had been detained but she was worried. She had seen this kind of justice before: people detained on even the slightest suspicion. She had heard whispers concerning a body in the garden of the house – at a time before she had been sent to Evangeline. If this was so then the matter was truly serious.
The sergeant who had thrown her out of the building was still by the door, staring across the street at her; she decided to move on. At the end of the street she stopped. She would not go back to Don Ferdinand. He would be angry; he was always angry. She would be punished, beaten as if the whole miserable mess were somehow her fault. She determined instead to go back to the house. Maybe she should contact Don Carlos; he would know what to do. There was a telephone at the house. She had never used a telephone before but she had seen Don Ferdinand use one and she thought she knew how to work it.
As she crossed the road another thought occurred to her. She hurried off in the opposite direction from the house, walking quickly until she came to an office. A polished brass plate bore the names ‘Antonio Cortez y Juan Garcia – Abogada’, an advocate at law. She pressed on the bell and waited.
When Tamaya returned to the house and opened the front door she immediately felt the strangeness of the place. Without the familiar presence of Evangeline to instruct her there was an emptiness of purpose. She went to the kitchen and made tea, but there was only her to drink it and that seemed wrong. In the salon she did something she had not done before. She sat in one of the high-backed armchairs and drank her tea. As she did so she contemplated what the future might be. A return to Don Ferdinand would be hard. Evangeline had given her more independence in her life than she had ever had, even as a child in Tangier. More than that, she felt there was a bond forming between them – not a friendship, more a mutual dependence, a kind of moral reliance. In returning to the house of Don Ferdinand she would lose that. After finishing her tea she stood up and, with a touch of apprehension, stepped across the room to where the telephone sat on a tall corner table.
Chapter 13
A near miss
‘It’s good to be out of there.’ Grainger jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the fast disappearing walls of Fez. They were on the move again.
‘I’ll go with that,’ Jordan agreed. ‘I had the feeling every sonofabitch knew our business back there.’
The road in front of them was straight and the countryside monotonous. It stretched out forever, relieved only by sporadic groves of oranges and date palms, penned and corralled inside baked earth walls.
They fell into silence. Grainger let his mind wander over the events of the last two days. One thing was certain, they were being shadowed. Their operation had been compromised, but he had no idea how. He raked over the meeting with Boukhari, analysing what had happened. Then a forgotten piece of the conversation with Boukhari popped up in his mind, something that had been said but which had dropped out of his memory. He sat up straight. ‘When I was back there in Boukhari’s fancy mansion, he said something odd.’
For a moment Jordan took his eyes away from the road. They flickered briefly in Grainger’s direction. ‘Which was?’
‘He said there was a price on my head and he was surprised I didn’t know it. He also said he was being paid to bump you off.’
‘Did he now?’
‘He did.’
‘Any idea who might be behind this?’
Grainger pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘The Gestapo, possibly Sicherheitsdienste.’
‘The SD? I thought that arm of Nazi counter-intelligence stayed on their home patch?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah, that’s right, but look at it this way. This part of Morocco is run by Vichy – and who really pulls the strings in Vichy?’
Jordan gave a knowing nod. ‘The Krauts.’
‘Precisely, so that makes it home patch for both lots: Gestapo and SD.’
Grainger chewed the conclusion over in his mind for a few minutes. ‘You know what, we should get rid of this car. It marks us out like tin ducks in a shooting gallery.’
Jordan gave a single nod of his head. ‘I was thinking the same; and there’s another thing I don’t cotton on to. The bounty on you has to be for your capture and delivery alive; otherwise they would have killed you then and there. But if they want you alive and me dead – well, why’s that? Do you have something I don’t? Some information about this whole shebang?’
Grainger shook his head. ‘Damned if I know.’
Casablanca was a large, dirty city. There were more cars and trucks on the streets and the crowds were denser than they had been in provincial Fez. The buildings were solid. The commercial quarter was all stone and concrete and there were beggars lying in wait at every corner. Looking for a man in a straw boater was going to be like fishing for a minnow in the ocean.
*
A strong desert wind had been blowing all morning. In the tower at Casablanca airport two traffic controllers peered down onto the runway. Visibility was dropping, the wind was picking up and the air was filling with red Sahara dust. There was a Junkers tri-motor due in from Madrid with 42 passengers on board. It would be a difficult landing.
In the single-storey airport lounge people shuffled around anxiously, walking over to the windows and peering out, traces of apprehension on their faces. Some were waiting to fly; some were waiting to greet those on the incoming flight.
A man sitting in a quiet corner on a low, comfortable bench, reading a newspaper, was one of the few who seemed unconcerned. He was a large, athletic man, casually dressed in a baggy linen suit, his shirt open at the neck. He had about him the air of a person not easily disturbed. On the seat next to him he had placed a briefcase and on top of that, his hat – a straw boater.
He ignored the sudden movement in the room, as the throb of the trimotor went low overhead. People at the windows pressed their faces to the glass as they strained to get a view of the touchdown. The aircraft slewed, its wings dipping right and left, as the pilot fought the side wind. Then with a perceptible squeak of rubber on concrete and the faintest puff of smoke from the wheels, it was down. The assembled company heaved out a collective breath and relieved voices began twittering. A crocodile of figures emerged from the plane and made its way towards the building; heads down against the wind, clutching handbags and holding onto hats that wanted to fly.
The doors to the lounge were pulled open and the crocodile merged into the waiting arms of those sent to meet it. For a moment the room was swamped by a cacophony of delighted squeaks, hugging bodies and sincere handshakes. Then, as quickly as it had happened, the crowd thinned leaving only those who waited to board the airplane for its return flight. They were few and would have to wait a further hour while the plane was cleaned and refuelled.
The man with the straw boater carefully folded his newspaper and stood up. A woman with dark hair and a pale complexion, who had waited for the throng to disperse, saw him and waved. She walked quickly to him. ‘Klaus, darling, I thought you were not here for a moment.’ She gave him a perfunctory kiss and linked her arm through his.
His face broke into a smile. ‘Dear Sophie, I missed you.’
‘Is it done?’ she asked as they made ready to leave, a note of expectation in her voice.
‘Not yet; there was a problem in Fez – but I left a trail and they will come to us.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘Regrettably I had to liquidate Boukhari.’
‘Did he betray us?’
‘No; however, he became greedy, and you know, my dear Sophie, I do not like greed. It is so unbecoming – and dangerous.’
He picked up his briefcase, put the boater on his head and offered her the crook of his elbow. Arm in arm they left the expectant passengers to it, walking out to where a green Renault car was waiting. ‘Back to the house, Edouard.’
The man behind the wheel raised a hand. ‘Oui, chef. Welcome back, Madame Sophie.’
‘So,’ she said as the Renault drew away from the kerb and headed for the city. ‘And Xicluna?’
‘Safely stored away. I will show you tomorrow.’
*
The Hotel Excelsior was not the best address in the city but it was respectable enough and those working in the reception lobby were mostly French, and looked like they could be trusted. Nevertheless, Grainger politely refused the assistance of the porter who was allocated to show them their rooms. After the Fez experience he had become more cautious.
‘I’ll call the embassy,’ Jordan said as the two men parted company on the third floor landing and headed to their respective rooms. ‘See you downstairs in the bar. In an hour?’ Grainger put up a thumb.
In the bar they sat and observed the crowd. It was more a café than a bar and there were a lot of people – some eating, some drinking, others just sitting around engaged in conversation. The air was thick with the blue smoke of tobacco.
‘So what now? There’re a lot of people in this city.’
‘Yup, but not a lot wearing a straw boater.’
Grainger pulled a sardonic face. ‘Is that the plan then?’
‘The embassy says your guys in Gibraltar are working on a new lead. We sit tight till we hear from them. Of course, we may not need one. If it’s right about whoever they are, wanting me dead and you alive – well – I guess sooner or later, they’ll come to us.’
‘I can go along with that, so long as it’s you that gets killed. Where do I send the flowers? Are you married?’
‘Boy, you’re a cheerful bastard, Grainger – and, yes, I am married. Pretty little blonde girl, and I have two daughters, twins, coming up two years old. How about you?’
‘Not really anything at the moment. There is a girl, French; met her on my last op. Last I heard she was in Spain – not sure where.’
‘Is it going anywhere?’
‘Hard to say. Difficult with this bloody war going on. Think about her quite a lot, though. Evangeline – pretty girl.’
Jordan grinned and nodded. ‘Yup, I’d say it was definitely going somewhere.’
Grainger gave him an odd look. ‘The war?’
‘No, dummy. You and the girl.’
Grainger picked up his beer. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Over the rim of his raised glass a familiar sight caught his eye. A woman had just walked in and made her way to a table where she sat down. The face was familiar but he couldn’t place it. He glanced over at Jordan. ‘That’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘Well, you can’t see from where you’re sitting but a woman just came in and I’m sure I know her from somewhere. Don’t turn around.’
‘What’s she look like?’
‘Very dark hair, china doll complexion, not a local – I’d say she was European, probably Spanish.’
‘Okay,’ Jordan stood up, ‘I’ll make like I’m going to the john.’ He turned in the direction of the toilets. To get there he would walk right past her table. When he came back the table was empty and the woman had gone. ‘What happened? Did I scare her away?’
Grainger shook his head slowly, his mind still turning over where he had seen her before. ‘Nope. A man came just after you went into the toilets. She left with him. It was clearly a rendezvous; they didn’t bother to order anything. She just got up and left.’
‘What was he like, the guy? Not our straw boater, I take it?’
‘Regrettably no. A thin shabby character, short, greasy-looking grey suit.’
‘Well, he was doing okay; the woman was a real looker. You sure about having seen her before?’
Grainger shrugged and screwed up his mouth. ‘She looks familiar, t
hat’s all.’
Jordan mulled it over for a few moments. ‘Well, I guess it could just be a coincidence.’ He lifted his wrist and looked at his watch. ‘Getting on chow time. Why don’t we take a hike around the block and get a feel for the layout of this town.’
Outside, the street was busy, the pavement crowded with people. They stood on the kerb working out which way to go.
‘This way, I guess.’ Jordan stepped into the road and waited for a car to pass, then carried on. He didn’t see the car that hit him. He had turned his head to look back at Grainger. His body jolted under the impact as he was flung like an unwanted toy cast aside by a truculent child. The car did not stop.
A crowd quickly gathered around the body where it lay rammed up against the kerb. A woman began wailing, waving her fists and shouting in the direction of the car. By the time Grainger got to him Jordan was sitting upright in the gutter. His face was white with pain. ‘Fuck it,’ was all he uttered. He grasped his right thigh where he had taken the hit on the car’s front wing. ‘Fuck it, fuck it!’ He began rocking his body back and forth in rhythm with the expletives. ‘Jesus, that hurts.’
A man pushed his way through the thinning crowd of onlookers. ‘Here, sir.’ The man waved a fragment of paper at Grainger. ‘Is this man your friend? I took the number of that car. You should take it to the gendarmes, they will find the driver.’
Grainger thanked him, then put out a hand to Jordan. ‘Do you think you can stand?’
‘We’ll see.’ Jordan grabbed the offered hand and hauled himself to his feet. As he did so he let out a stifled grunt of pain. ‘That was careless of me.’
‘No, my friend, that was deliberate. Let’s see if we can get you back up to your room.’
When they reached the lobby a concerned porter offered a hand and asked if they needed a doctor. ‘No doctor, I’m fine, just some bruises.’
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 11