THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  In the room Jordan struggled out of his ripped clothing and displayed a nasty compression wound. The thigh had swollen and split open. He lifted his leg, winced and let it drop back down again. ‘At least nothing’s broken. Hurts like hell, though. Looks like I won’t be going anywhere for a day or two.’

  ‘That was deliberate.’ Grainger was standing by the window, looking down into the street. ‘I saw it. The car was aimed at you; that was no accident.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. It was a green Renault. I think it was the same one that hijacked you in Fez. I got a good look at the man driving; it was that character who came into the café when we were downstairs earlier.’

  ‘Sonofabitch. Well, at least we have the number so we can go after the bastards.’

  Grainger fished out the paper and looked at it. ‘It’s a blind. I saw the number on that car. This is nothing like it.’ He screwed it up and threw it into an ashtray. ‘That was just a clumsy attempt to throw us off the trail. Whatever car that number belongs to it won’t be the one that ran you down. The guy who gave it to me must have been one of them. I’d say the opposition has just found us.’

  ‘And they got away. We’re back to first base again.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We know what they look like – and now we know what they’re driving.’

  ‘Buddy, there’re a lot of green Renault automobiles in this town.’

  ‘True, but not all have collision damage on the front wing.’

  It was two days since the incident and they’d heard nothing. Then they got news. ‘There’s word in from the embassy.’ Jordan limped down the corridor to the lift. ‘There’s a new contact. They’re sending a guy over to brief us. There’s a café two blocks from here; the rendezvous is arranged. It looks like we might be back in business.’ The walk to the café was short but Jordan made heavy weather of it. The leg was functioning but there was still a lot of pain.

  The café was large, modern and crowded. They found a table and sat down. Shortly after the waiter had brought them coffee, a man in a floral shirt and wearing a panama hat approached their table.

  ‘That’s our guy.’ Jordan casually raised a hand in recognition.

  The man pulled up a chair. ‘Doug Harriman. Welcome to Casablanca. Sorry about the reception you got.’ He gestured towards Jordan’s leg. ‘How is it?’

  ‘It functions. What have you got for us?’

  Harriman produced a pack of cigarettes and offered them around. Grainger waved it away, ‘Thanks, I don’t.’

  The man half laughed. ‘There’s more in that pack than smokes. I’ll leave it on the table when I go. Everything’s inside: contact name, description, address, password. When you’ve read it burn it.’

  Jordan lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away from the other two. It gave him the excuse to glance about the place. ‘Anything else?’

  Harriman gave the mere hint of a nod. ‘Sure. The meeting’s set up for tomorrow. The contact has a carpet shop. He says Xicluna is definitely here in the city. He wants money, of course.’ He threw a glance at Jordan. ‘Make sure you don’t get sapped this time, huh.’

  ‘Where do we pick up the cash?’

  ‘You don’t. There’s a black Citroën parked a block from here. You’ll find an envelope under the foot mat on the passenger side.’

  Harriman palmed a key across the table to Jordan. ‘Okay, one more thing and I’m out’a here. Do not go back to the hotel; it’s no longer safe. We’re moving you out. I’ll send someone in to settle the tab and pick up your stuff. There’s a map in the car. That’ll get you to a private house; it’ll be more secure. We can’t have you guys being picked off.’

  They found the car in the side street where Harriman had left it. When he saw it Grainger gave a nod of approval. ‘Traction Avant. That’ll keep up with the opposition.’

  ‘Any good, is it?’

  ‘Wagon of choice for the gendarmes and bad guys alike.’

  ‘Here,’ Jordan tossed the keys to Grainger. ‘You drive, I’ll point the way. I don’t think my leg’s gonna like jumping up and down on that clutch.’

  The house, when they found it, was a villa tucked away in a quiet street on the outer edge of the city. It was not large but it stood in its own garden and was fenced around by a stone wall. It was secluded, and that’s what mattered. Inside, they found a larder in the kitchen. It was well stocked with cans, a sack of rice and a little fresh stuff.

  ‘Coffee.’ Grainger brandished a jar he had taken out of a cupboard. ‘I’ll put a brew together. We can take it through to the dining room. What’s in the package?’

  Jordan ripped the top off the cigarette pack and upended the contents onto the dining table. ‘Okay, let us see what we have here.’ He spread the cigarettes out, then looked in the packet. ‘Nothing in there. So how about these roosters.’ He picked up a cigarette and broke it in two, letting the loose tobacco fall onto the table top. He picked up another and broke it. Nothing but tobacco. The fifth one bent but refused to break open like the others. He peeled away the outer layer and withdrew a tightly coiled roll of paper. ‘Ah-huh, paydirt.’

  He unrolled the coil. There was an address, the name of a man, and a brief instruction. ‘Go look in the pantry. There’s a sack of rice, have a look behind it and tell me what you find.’

  A few seconds later Grainger was back. He stood in the doorway, a broad grin splitting his face. Tucked under one arm were two Thompson submachine guns; in his right hand he gripped the handle of a leather suitcase. He dumped the guns and suitcase on the table.

  ‘Shall we open it and see what’s inside?’

  ‘Why don’t you do that thing.’

  Grainger unfastened two leather straps and lifted the lid.

  ‘Oh ho,’ Jordan picked out a smoke grenade and held it up. ‘Now that’s what I call a useful arsenal.’ He let his hand run over the contents. ‘Ammo, smoke grenades, stun grenades, dynamite, detonators, baling wire, even a sawn-off trench gun. We could start a small war with this.’

  Grainger ran an eye over the collection of weapons. He rubbed a finger across his top lip. ‘This is good kit. Looks like whoever put this little lot together is expecting things to get rough.’

  Jordan snorted out a short puff of breath and rubbed his leg. ‘You think it hasn’t already.’

  ‘Well, look at it this way, nobody’s started shooting yet.’

  ‘No? What about the Valentine’s Day massacre at Boukhari’s joint?’

  Grainger waved it away with a casual flap of his hind. ‘Bad guys shooting bad guys; that doesn’t count.’

  ‘Get serious. How can you say that? You Limeys make me laugh.’

  Grainger shrugged apologetically. ‘Like you said the other day on the road to Fez, it’s war.’ He shut the lid on the suitcase and fastened the straps. ‘Why don’t we go out and find a bar; I could murder a beer right now. One for the road before we get down to business.’

  ‘Suits me. Tomorrow we can see what Mr Hajji Karmalan has to tell us.’

  ‘Is that his name?’

  ‘It is. He’s an Iranian. He has a carpet shop in the old quarter.’

  Chapter 14

  The compact

  Evangeline sat staring straight ahead. In front of her Ramirez, pen in hand, was meticulously filling in the forms that would be the start of her long dark road, perhaps to deportation, perhaps to execution. She did not try to decide which would be the worst. She had resigned herself to whatever came next; her mind no longer struggled with what was happening, she had become indifferent. Richard was dead – and now she would probably join him, and that was her only consolation. Her thoughts drifted off to Alain and she wondered how he would take her death, or even if he would survive to hear of it.

  It seemed strange to think that the world would go on without her; the war would finish, those who came through it would go back to live their lives – but she would see none
of it. She struggled not to let herself think too much of what might have been. Her life with Richard, the home they would never build together, children they would never have. The tears began to form. It was no good thinking these things and, she told herself severely, pull yourself together.

  That night she slept on a hard bed in an empty room with nothing but a bucket in the corner for her needs. At first sleep would not come; when it did, it was fitful, and crammed with ill-formed dreams. As the early dawn lit the room she woke to the shadow of the window bars cast across the wall. The dreams had been bad, and the day she woke to was no better.

  The sound of the door being unlocked flipped her heart. She threw off the rough blanket that had covered her in sleep and rapidly stood up. She felt less exposed standing in front of her captors.

  A surly faced guardia pushed the door open.

  ‘Baño!’ He barked out the word in a coarse grunt, at the same time holding out a towel and a single piece of soap to her. He marched her along the corridor to where a communal guest bathroom was located, unlocked the door and gestured that she must go in. He hovered by the open door and for a moment she thought he was going to stand there and keep watch on her. She glanced at the bath; with him there that would be out of the question.

  ‘Terminada.’ He held up a clenched fist and rapped hard on the door. ‘Terminada – tu,’ he rapped on the door again. ‘Yo voy. Tu etiendes. Comprenez?’ he added, breaking into French to reinforce the message. He need not have bothered. She had understood: she would knock on the door when she was finished and he would let her out. The door banged shut and he locked it.

  She felt almost joyful at the prospect of the bath. She opened the taps and watched as the steaming hot water gushed out. When it was deep enough she stepped in and slowly laid back until she had immersed her whole body. Lying in the comfort of the water it fleetingly occurred to her that it might be good to end it all there – to slip beneath the surface and just surrender to the cloak of oblivion. It passed. She was not ready to give up.

  As she towelled herself dry, the seeds of anger began to sprout. With her clothes on she stood in front of the mirror. They had let her keep her handbag. They had upended it on the table and searched through the scattered contents, taking away her money and a small pair of nail scissors, then abandoned it to her. She had the essentials. She stared hard at her face and the dull half-moons of a bad night that hung under her eyes. She could fix that. She ran a comb through her tangled hair and then applied her lipstick. As the image grew back into something human, there was rising indignation in her head. Yesterday’s confusion, the torpor of self-pity, had gone; she was angry. Angry with herself for not fighting back, angry with the Rojas woman for her scheming arrogance and mindless hostility. When she banged on the door to summon the guardia it boomed down the corridor like someone slamming the gates of hell.

  When she got back to the room she found a tray with coffee and a tartine of buttered bread. The smell of the coffee and the bread in her mouth brought back the little that was missing from her resolve. She would not sit back and take it. She would fight in whatever way she could. The only question was how.

  She had finished the coffee when the door was unlocked. Ramirez entered the room followed by a man she judged to be in his thirties. Ramirez looked at her without emotion. ‘This is Señor Cortez; he is here to help you.’

  Cortez waited until Ramirez had left and closed the door. ‘My name is Antonio Cortez,’ he said, but he spoke the words in English. ‘I am a lawyer. Your servant told me of your problem. Do you speak English?’

  ‘A little. I am French; do you speak French?’

  Cortez shook his head. ‘No, I am sorry, only Spanish or English.’

  ‘Could you send for my servant? She could translate what I do not understand.’

  Again Cortez shook his head. ‘I do not think they will allow that, but I have another idea. Excuse me for a moment.’ He spoke the words slowly then asked her if she had understood. When she agreed she had, he nodded and left. She was alone again – but now she had hope.

  It was a full hour before he returned. This time when the door opened the first face to greet her was Carlos. He walked straight to her and took both her hands in his. ‘I have come to take you out of here. Ramirez will release you into my custody. We can go to your house and see what is to be done, then tomorrow we shall go before the magistrate and sort this thing out. Cortez here will come with us.’

  A look of relief lit her face. ‘Dear Carlos. How can I thank you?’

  He patted her hands. ‘There is no need. Things will be all right – you will see. Cortez here is an excellent advocate. We shall put things right. Now come on, you’re going home.’ He put an arm around her shoulder and together they walked the length of the corridor and down the stairs to the front lobby. There was no sign of Ramirez and they simply stepped out into the warm morning air.

  ‘We shall,’ he said as they got into his car, ‘wrap you in the secure cloak of the de Lorca name, where nothing will be able to touch you.’

  When they got to the house Tamaya had difficulty in restraining her emotion at seeing them. She quickly made tea for everyone, then went to busy herself in the kitchen.

  ‘The position is this,’ Cortez explained, leaving Carlos to interpret his words. ‘A summons has been issued on the charges, so they must be heard. This means you will have to surrender yourself to the court tomorrow morning. I shall then enter a plea of not guilty and ask for the complaint of assault on Señora Rojas to be dismissed.’

  Carlos held out an open hand as if to confirm that it was a foregone conclusion. He smiled confidently. ‘I have discovered that her husband works on one of our estates. It will not be difficult to have that one withdrawn.’

  ‘The charge of insulting the state and El Caudillo will be more difficult. Because so many made the statements, it will be difficult to get them withdrawn.’

  Evangeline looked anxiously at both men. ‘So what will happen?’

  ‘In the first instance you will go before the magistrate. I do not think this court will consider itself competent to reject this charge. They will defer to a tribunal. I do not consider there is any evidence that you are an enemy of the state. Nobody has asserted that. So I think we can rule out the most severe penalty, that of execution. However, they may decide that you should merely be deported back to France. This will mean passing you over to the police in Vichy.’

  Evangeline’s face fell. ‘If I go back to France, they will hand me to the Gestapo. I will be as good as dead. I might just as well stay here and be executed cleanly. It will spare me the pain and indignity of their abuses.’

  Carlos leant over reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, it will not come to that. We shall find a way.’

  *

  In the court of the magistrates, she stood at a wooden railed dock on a raised dais facing a severe looking man dressed in black robes, a black pillbox hat perched on his head. He read out something in Spanish. A man in a dark suit then translated for her in French, informing her of the charges and asking what response she wished to give. Cortez stood up and bowed in the direction of the magistrate. He then read from a prepared statement, little of which Evangeline understood.

  The magistrate considered for a moment then, nodding in the direction of Cortez, gave his reply.

  The interpreter again addressed her. ‘Mademoiselle Evangeline Pfeiffer,’ he intoned solemnly, ‘the charges for assault of Señora Rojas and the abuse of five other defendants have been dismissed by the court. The complaint against you is withdrawn.’ Evangeline felt the warmth of the relief but it was short lived.

  ‘On the matter of the second charge, that of insulting the state and the head of state, El Caudillo, Generalissimo Francisco Paulino Franco Bahamonde, you are hereby committed to trial by the State Tribunal of Justice, on a date to be notified. You are to be released to the bail of Don Carlos Luis Alejandro de Lorca until that time.’ He sat down.

  The magistr
ate made a further remark to Cortez then banged down a wooden gavel. Everyone in the court stood stiffly to attention; the magistrate stood up and, in a flurry of his black gown, swept through a side exit.

  For the moment it was over.

  It was a week before there was any news of a date for the tribunal. Cortez phoned her and suggested she attend his office to discuss what was to happen next. She went the following day with Tamaya to interpret for her.

  ‘It is as I suspected,’ he spoke the words slowly in Spanish, Tamaya repeating them. ‘The court will hear only the part pertaining to the insult. They have dismissed any reference to you being a foreign agent, or deliberately fomenting dissent.’

  Evangeline looked confused. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘I have spoken with a senior judge of the Supreme Court. I am afraid he tells me it is certain on the evidence that you will be found guilty and deported. I am sorry.’

  ‘Is there nothing we can do about it?’

  Cortez looked embarrassed. ‘I wish there were, but regrettably no.’

  That evening she sat in the garden on the bench under the orange tree and contemplated what would happen to her once she was in France and the Gestapo prison. There was no place for illusions. It would, she knew, be a nasty way to die.

  Tamaya came out with a glass of wine for her. ‘Will it be so bad, mademoiselle?’

  ‘When I escaped from France, Tamaya, a man was killed – a German security agent called Ludwig Kraus. He was an agent of the Sicherheitsdienste, the Nazi intelligence agency. They will blame me for it.’

  ‘Could you not run away, mademoiselle? You are a rich woman.’

  Evangeline shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of futility. ‘Where would I go? Not back to France.’

  ‘You could go to Lisbon, mademoiselle. It would not be difficult. You would be safe there.’