THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  There were four of them, standing on what was a short dock overlooking the water. Three he had seen before and another he had not. The new person, who was standing quite close to the door, was a man; middle aged, with pale skin and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His arms were bare and on one of them he had a large snake tattoo. They were talking in what the boy thought was English, but he could not be sure. After a short conversation they climbed, one after another, over the end of the dock onto what the boy guessed was a ladder leading to a landing jetty.

  The sound of the motor, which had been idling in the background, rose in tempo and he heard the gurgle of the water belching over the exhaust. Bent low, he slipped out of the gloom and ran to the end of the dock. He had been right. They had descended a ladder and boarded a sleek open Riva speedboat which was now surging its way out into the main harbour basin. He could just make out the name written on the stern. Fumbling in the folds of his clothing, his hands searched until he found a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. Carefully he wrote down the name he had read on the stern of the boat. He pushed the note back into his pocket and at the same moment offered thanks that his father had sent him to school – for not only could he write, but he could write in English, and that was more than most street boys could do.

  He watched as the little craft left the basin, then disappeared into the general confusion of docks and jetties that made up the greater harbour complex. Now another idea came into his head. He pulled open the door of the warehouse and ran back through the gloom coming out the other end and into the open area of the port. He ran through the main entrance and then along the street until he came to the Hassan II mosque.

  Here he took off his sandals, washed his feet at one of the taps lining the wall, and ran into the building. It was empty. Good. He went to the door leading to the minaret. It was not locked. Good. Panting for breath he ran up the steep staircase that led to the crown; yet another door that was not locked. Thanking Allah, he stepped out onto the balcony and leaned over the parapet. The view was clear. He could see way across the harbour arm to where the port was laid out in front of him like a miniature scale model.

  There it was, he was sure. A small craft ploughing a foaming wake through the deep blue of the water. He watched as it reached its destination: a large private motor yacht anchored alone in the roadstead, still in the lee of the harbour arm, but well away from everything else.

  He had one more thing to do. He would go and find his employer. He knew he would be somewhere in the city. He was not sure where, but he knew he would be there. He would ask in the souks.

  Chapter 24

  Pursuit

  Grainger was running out of ideas and options. It had been two weeks since the shooting at the villa and he had heard nothing from Harriman or from London. He was in limbo. The mission had come unpicked. It was compromised, and that was the only thing of which he was sure. He no longer knew who he could trust and he was no nearer finding Émile Xicluna than he had been on the day he landed in Tangier. Worse, he had gone from being the hunter to the hunted. It left him jumpy and nervous. It was a mess.

  He was angry with the Americans, who seemed to have abandoned him, and with London for sending him off without a Morse code set, leaving him isolated. He would sit it out for another week, lying low in the hotel, then if he heard nothing from Harriman or London he would bail out. He would abort the mission, go back to Tangier, and get the ferry to Spain. G and Charlie Armitage would have to rethink the op. In the meantime, he decided, he would go back to the port. It was the last lead they’d had before Jordan got himself shot up. It was a longshot but there was no point in just sitting around waiting, and there was always the chance he might find the beggar.

  The foray to the port yielded nothing. It was just a place crammed with busy people; no one had the time or the inclination to talk. It had been a futile waste of time. As the sun set and the muezzin began the call to prayer, he drove deeper into the city, parked, and went in search of a café. He found a place that sold beer. Sitting alone in the warm evening air he got to wondering what he would do with his life when the war was over.

  He pulled the letter from Evangeline out of his wallet and read it again. He should have gone to find her. He should have told Charlie Armitage to get someone else for the mission. He picked up the half of the gold Napoleon she had enclosed in the letter and turned it round in his fingers, rubbing them along the sharp edge where she had cut the coin in two. It was no good dwelling on it. It was war and, even though Charlie Armitage was a friend of the family, he knew he would not have taken no for an answer. So, instead of going and finding her, he had done as he had been told and gone straight back to London, and then come out on this half-baked mission.

  He folded the letter and together with the half Napoleon slipped it back into his wallet. ‘No good harrowing over it,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘Probably never see the girl again. Even if I manage to survive this bloody war she is likely to have moved on, found someone else.’

  He ordered another beer, and when his stomach told him it was time to eat he decided to stay put. It was comfortable and convenient.

  By the time he got back to the hotel it was gone ten and the reception was closed up, together with the bar. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.

  As he came down to breakfast the next day, a man on the reception called out to him, ‘Bonjour, monsieur, a moment please. I have a message for you.’

  Grainger stopped in mid-stride, a grin lit up his face. It had to be news: Harriman or Charlie in London. He didn’t mind much either way so long as things were on the move again. He turned and walked quickly to the desk.

  ‘The gendarmes were here last night, monsieur. They were asking for you. When we could not find you they asked that you should to go to the Prefecture this morning.’

  ‘What did they want? Did they say?’

  ‘No, monsieur. Only they said that you should go to the Prefecture this morning, monsieur. Oh, and they asked for your passport.’

  Alarm bells started ringing. He wasn’t sure why but it didn’t sound right. ‘Do you still have my passport?’

  ‘No, monsieur, they took it.’

  Grainger quickly made up his mind. It was time to move. He would have to break cover and call on Harriman. ‘Right. Well I was planning to leave today. I’ll settle my account now. I can go to the Prefecture on my way to the airport.’

  ‘Of course, monsieur.’

  The man on reception waited until Grainger had got into the lift, then he picked up the telephone. ‘Prefecture,’ he said quietly into the mouthpiece.

  It took Grainger no more than five minutes to throw what little he had into his bag. He avoided the lift and instead ran down the fire escape. The door at the bottom led out into the back garden of the hotel. He made his way rapidly to the car, threw his bag onto the rear seat, got in, and without looking back drove out to join the road leading to the city. A short way along it he saw a police car coming towards him, lights flashing, siren howling. That, he was sure, had an appointment with him – and it was one he had no intention of keeping. He put his foot down. He had to get into the city and lose the car in the backstreets.

  As he skirted past the main entrance to the port a person stepped carelessly into the road. He slammed on the brakes. The car skidded sideways and there was a thump as it struck something. ‘Shit!’ He was convinced he had run someone down. He jumped out of the car to investigate, but instead of a body lying in the road he found himself looking into a familiar face.

  ‘Hey, mister, it is me, Jamil.’

  Grainger blanched, a stunned look on his face. ‘Jesus, Jamil, you need to look where you’re going. Are you hurt? Did I hit you?’

  The boy grinned. ‘Jamil OK, mister. You knock down garbage can.’

  Grainger looked at the boy in amazement. ‘How the hell did you get here?’

  The boy grinned. ‘I come on bus, mister. Jamil have good informations for you.’
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br />   Grainger cast a glance in the direction he had just come, sure that the gendarmes would be back looking for him. ‘Get in the car,’ he snapped at the boy. ‘Quickly.’ With the boy sitting next to him he rammed the car into gear and took off, tyres squeaking and stuttering as they battled to grip the tarmac.

  ‘You want I tell you informations now?’

  Grainger flicked up a hand, batting the question away. ‘Later.’

  For the next ten minutes he drove the car hard into the city. When they came to the Medina wall he found a place to park among the anonymous company of similar vehicles. There they left it and walked quickly through the arch of the Medina gate and on, until they had gone what Grainger thought was a safe distance. ‘This’ll do.’ He dropped down onto a chair outside a coffee shop and signalled the boy should do the same.

  ‘Okay, now you can tell me.’

  The boy assumed an air of authority. ‘I have found big bastard German.’

  Grainger’s face brightened. ‘Have you now.’

  The boy looked pleased with himself. ‘Jamil know where they keeps one prisoner man. One Algiers man. They take him in cart with carpets.’

  ‘You have been busy. Is he here in the city?’

  The boy shook his head. He thought for a moment. There was an air of perplexity about him, as if he wasn’t quite sure of something. ‘Are you British spying man, mister?’ He looked directly into Grainger’s face and waited for the answer.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  There was silence as the boy considered the response. ‘But you look for Algiers man? Yes?’

  Grainger screwed up his face and rocked his head from side to side. ‘Hmm – yes.’

  ‘Good,’ the boy said brightly. ‘You give one thing and Jamil will show where big bastard keeps this Algiers man.’

  ‘You want baksheesh, how much?’

  The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘No baksheesh.’

  Grainger was surprised. ‘No baksheesh?’

  ‘No, you give one other thing.’

  ‘What other thing?’

  ‘You give Jamil one job. I work for you. I can find all informations for you. You will see.’

  Grainger looked at the boy open mouthed, then burst out laughing, but he quickly stopped. Why not, he thought. What could be better cover than a boy from the souks? Who would suspect him? No one. ‘Okay, you can have a job.’

  Quick as a flash the boy came back. ‘How much you pay Jamil for this one job?’

  ‘Five francs each week, okay?’

  Jamil grinned. ‘Okay, mister, five francs is good. One thing more. Gendarmes, he is looking for you. Want arrest you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Big bastard sell you. There is one man want to buy you. Wears one dark cloths. Not like Morocco man. Foreign man. I think he is big bastard France man.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  The boy broke into a giggle. ‘Mister, all peoples in souk tell these things. Let’s go. I show you place of Algiers man. Come on. He is on one boat. I show.’

  They walked as far as the southern end of the port to where a long harbour arm acted as a breakwater, stretching out into the ocean, shielding the port and its wharves from Atlantic storms. The boy led the way out along the broad bastion and when they had almost reached the end of it he stopped. ‘There, mister.’ He pointed, his arm outstretched, to where the boat he had seen from the top of the minaret, lay at anchor.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Of course, mister. Jamil watch big bastards go there in small boat. Three mens and one woman. One mans Jamil not see before. He have beard like this.’ He ran an outline across his face with a finger. ‘I heard him in port, he speak all time like you.’

  ‘George the fifth.’

  ‘You know this one man George fifth?’

  Grainger laughed. ‘No, that’s what we call that kind of beard.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the boy said quietly, absorbing and storing the morsel of information, ‘George fifth.’

  Grainger squinted out across the glittering surface of the water. ‘I need to get some binoculars to read the name.’

  ‘No need, mister. Jamil see already. Here, I have write down.’

  He rummaged in the folds of his djellaba and produced a scrap of paper on which he had written: t/t Lady Agrippina. ‘Jamil write good English. No?’

  Grainger saluted the boy. ‘Jamil writes very good English. Let’s get out of here; there’s work to be done.’

  ‘Hey, mister,’ the boy once again had a studied look on his face, ‘it okay if I call you boss? Boss sure better than mister.’

  ‘Boss it is then.’

  They waited till the sun had gone down and the sky was properly dark, then Grainger drove them out of the city. They needed somewhere to stay. He couldn’t trust a hotel. He no longer had a passport and that alone would raise suspicion. Anyway the gendarmes were out looking for him and he couldn’t be sure that his description had not been circulated. He needed a safe house, and he knew just the place: the villa that Harriman had provided. He was as sure as he could be that no one would look for him there.

  The front gate was secured with a chain and padlock. That, he told himself, was a good sign. Harriman’s team must have been in, cleaned up and locked the place up tight. From the boot of the car he got a heavy-duty bolt cutter. It made short silent work of the soft metal chain.

  The key that he had dropped into the pot by the front door when he left was no longer there. He was not surprised and went round to the rear of the house, the boy a few steps behind him.

  The back door was locked and shuttered. There was no option, he would have to break them open. He took the bolt cutters and tried to prize them into a gap but they were shut tight and when he tapped on them he realised they were actually made of steel.

  All the time the boy had stood back and watched. ‘You want Jamil get in, boss?’

  Grainger gave a resigned shrug. ‘Don’t see how you can.’ He waved an arm generally at the windows. ‘They’re all barred and shuttered.’

  ‘Jamil, can do. No need window, boss,’ He looked up to the tiled roof. ‘You want I go in, boss?’

  ‘You can do it?’

  ‘Sure, why not. Jamil top thief in all Tangier, boss. You see.’ The boy pulled up the hem of his djellaba tight between his legs and tied it like a loin cloth around his waist. With his legs free he went to where a zinc drainpipe was secured to the stonework and began to shin up it. He moved as deftly and surely as a salamander climbing a rock.

  When he reached the roof he began removing the tube tiles until he had uncovered a gap wide enough for him to slide through. Minutes later there was the sound of a bar being lifted, then the shutters were pushed open and there was the boy, a grin as big as a slice of water melon splitting his face. ‘This okay, boss?’

  Grainger just stood there, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. Back at Baker Street he was considered a top break-in artist. The boy had just run rings around him.

  Inside, the rooms had been tidied as if ready for a holiday let. There was a new door in the kitchen where Alphonse Bouchard had died in a hail of shot from the trench gun. It was as if the gunfight had never happened. He looked in the pantry, which had been well stocked last time he was there. It was bare save for a few cans and the sack of rice. On another shelf there were six bottles of beer.

  ‘Looks like pretty thin pickings.’ Grainger remarked, holding up a can labelled SPAM and one of baked beans.

  ‘Don’t worry, boss. You give one beer for Jamil, I make food.’

  Grainger was once more surprised. He looked at the dish the boy placed on the table, piled with a mountain of steaming rice. He didn’t understand it. He dug a large serving spoon into the mound and as he ladled the rice onto the plate in front of him he caught the aromas of spices. There were cubes of Spam and there were baked beans, though he had washed away the tomato sauce. But there was more: pieces of boiled lemon, and apricot.

  He shovelle
d a spoonful into his mouth. It was the food of the souks. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ Grainger pointed his spoon at the rice pile. ‘I didn’t see any of this in the pantry.’

  ‘Easy, boss, there is good lemon tree and fruits in garden.’ He waved his own spoon in the direction of the back door. There is kamun plant there, and waraq tree. He pulled out a leaf of bay laurel from the rice and waved it at Grainger. ‘See, waraq.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘No, boss, all boys knows these things.’

  ‘Did your mother teach you?’

  ‘No, boss, I learn from father. Mother died when I small like this.’ He put out a hand to indicate the height of about a metre.

  ‘And where is your father now?’

  ‘He die too, boss. Just me and one sister. She live with my aunt – no good cow my aunt. She no like Jamil.’

  ‘So where do you live?’

  ‘Sometimes in shop, some mens in the souk give one place for the night. Sometimes on street. Many boys living on street, boss.’

  That took Grainger by surprise, though he knew it was true and he had seen it often. Somehow he had never thought of this boy as having no home, of living a life day by day on the streets, finding shelter wherever he could. It was like England a hundred years earlier, but that was life, and between the war and its refugees, half of Europe was fast going in that direction. Anyway, it was not his business to put the world in order and he pushed it out of his thoughts.

  ‘Okay,’ he said after they had finished eating, ‘I have to work out a plan. Somehow we need to get Émile Xicluna off that boat and out of Casablanca. It’s going to be tricky. I’ll sleep on it and tell you what we do in the morning.’

  He woke to the smell of coffee and when he went into the kitchen there was the boy sitting at the table. In front of him he had a sheet of flat bread and a bowl of yogurt. ‘Morning, boss. You want breakfast?’