Redfalcon, page 13
‘And I’ll eat my hat if he’s not a Gestapo officer,’ I added.
‘I think he’s got a couple of locals in his employ,’ said Jaikie in an undertone. ‘Don’t look, but there are two shifty characters lurking in the shadows a safe distance behind us.’
A more worrying possibility occurred to me, that they might be in the employ of Ravenstein. The thought that the master spy might be somewhere out in the dark orchestrating another ambush was enough to send a tingle of apprehension down my spine. Through gritted teeth, I said, ‘We have to shake them off.’
‘Yes. We cannot let them follow us to Dr Lasalle,’ said Karrie.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jaikie. ‘There’s a canny old trick we can use.’
Dougal grinned roguishly. ‘I know just what you mean. We’ll be the tail-enders, right?’
Karrie peered at him curiously. ‘What do you mean, tail-enders?’
‘It’s really simple,’ Jaikie explained. ‘You two walk ahead of us and we’ll all keep up a loud conversation. As soon as you see the chance, the pair of you duck down out of sight somewhere while Dougal and I carry on as if we’re still talking to you up ahead of us.’
‘With any luck our pals back there won’t realise we’ve split up,’ Dougal concluded.
I knew that in their rascally youth among the slums of Glasgow the Die-Hards had become experts at dodging trouble, especially when it came in the form of the police. I was confident that they could pull off their trick.
‘That’s the plan then,’ I agreed. ‘They’ll very likely miss us in the dark. We’ll meet up later back at the hotel.’
We began walking faster, forcing our unwanted friends to increase their pace while still trying to remain inconspicuous. At the same time Dougal and Jaikie, in keeping with our false identities, led off a boisterous and mostly ill-informed conversation about American sports.
‘Did you hear about that Mets game?’ Dougal enquired in a loud Texan drawl. ‘What a bust-up!’
‘Yeah, they were sure pitching the pigskin on that one,’ Jaikie responded.
‘The slammer must have hit at least three home runs before tea,’ I contributed, wondering if what I said made any sense at all.
Karrie chimed in with, ‘Those were some of the best hoops of the season, so I hear. I would bet that Notre Dame will capture the pennant this year.’
‘Well, I say that Yale are a dadblamed cert to clinch it,’ Dougal asserted belligerently, ‘and if some wise guy wants to cross me, he’ll take a kick in the caboose.’
So we carried on until we spotted an empty unattended handcart to our left. I caught Karrie by the sleeve and we ducked behind it. Dougal and Jaikie carried on as though nothing had happened and continued to discourse vociferously on various sports of which they knew nothing.
Crouching low, Karrie and I observed a pair of men in hooded robes slinking along in pursuit of the two Scots. Our friends were making such a row it was easy to keep track of them even as they briefly passed out of sight round a corner. As soon as we judged it was safe, we emerged from hiding and headed off in a different direction.
‘That was certainly fun,’ said Karrie, ‘but I hope Dougal and Jaikie aren’t walking into any trouble.’
‘Oh, I think they can handle themselves,’ I assured her, then added, ‘Probably nearly as well as you could.’
She led me unhesitatingly to where the streets narrowed to a series of twisted, constricted alleyways, dotted with ancient wooden doors. I realised that she had led us into the medina, the old town. It was a baffling maze of tunnels and passageways, some so narrow that a man with broad shoulders would have difficulty squeezing through.
‘You’re sure we’re not going to get lost?’ I asked.
‘As an archaeologist, Richard, it’s part of my job to familiarise myself with the lie of the land,’ Karrie asserted confidently. ‘I’ve found my way around the ruins of Mycenae and the labyrinth at Knossos. I memorised a map of Casablanca earlier this evening, just as if it were another historical site.’
Her self-assurance was not misplaced. Soon we were standing in front our destination, a small shop with dust-streaked windows. A sign above them declared in Arabic and French Antiques and Curios for Sale. A few brass urns and ornamental daggers were visible through the murky glass, none of which looked especially valuable.
‘This is the place,’ Karrie said. I could tell from the catch in her voice that she was as excited as she would have been if she had been standing before the entrance of a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.
I yanked on the bell pull hanging by the door and heard muffled clanking from inside. After a few moments the door was opened by a squat figure in a skull cap. His bulging eyes stared up at us out of a frog-like face.
‘I believe we are expected,’ said Karrie. ‘Mr Kalimi said I would find my colleague here.’
‘Yes, Kalimi, of course,’ said the little man in a voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper. ‘This way, please.’
He ushered us inside through a shop cluttered with all manner of knick-knacks. In the dim light I glimpsed figurines pitted with age, strings of inexpensive baubles, and tarnished brass candlesticks. The little man directed us to a rickety wooden stairway then disappeared through a bead curtain into a back room.
I led the way up the creaking steps to a plain white door. Here I hesitated, suddenly recalling my initial mistrust of Kalimi. Knowing there was a chance we might be walking into a trap, I signalled Karrie to stay behind me and she reluctantly complied. Turning the knob as quietly as possible, I slowly opened the door.
The first thing to meet my gaze was the last thing I expected to see – a policeman.
21
THE GAME PLAYERS
He was a compactly built officer in the dapper uniform of the local gendarmerie. Ignoring my arrival, he shook a pair of dice in a cup before tossing them nonchalantly on to a backgammon board. Sitting opposite him was a very different figure in a loosely fitting burnoose. His bald head and Van Dyck beard, along with his arched eyebrows, lent a faintly Satanic cast to his features. On the table between the two men sat a near-empty bottle of cognac from which they had been filling their crystal glasses.
As soon as Karrie entered the room, the bald man leapt from his chair with a cry of recognition. Embracing her warmly, he kissed her on both cheeks before stepping back to admire her.
‘Ah, Karrie, ma chérie, you look so well,’ he exclaimed. ‘And yet you must have made a hard journey.’
‘It wasn’t without incident,’ Karrie admitted. Gesturing towards me, she added, ‘This is—’
‘Hank Brewster,’ I interposed, wary of revealing my true name in the presence of the Vichy police. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr Lasalle.’
The historian’s gaze remained fixed on Karrie. ‘I cannot tell you with what excitement I have anticipated your arrival.’
Stubbing out his cigarette, the officer stood and straightened his tunic. Tucking his cap under his arm, he greeted us each in turn with a small bow. ‘I am very pleased to meet any friends of the good doctor,’ he said in accented but impeccable English. ‘Colonel Marcel Riveaux, prefect of police, at your service.’
Ellery Willis had told me that the prefect was doing his best to maintain a fair-minded neutrality in difficult circumstances, but I still felt uncomfortable in his presence. It was tricky to judge just how much he might be under the influence of the Gestapo men overseeing the armistice.
‘The colonel and I were comrades in the Great War,’ Lasalle explained. ‘We meet occasionally for a friendly game of backgammon.’
‘And once again the dice have favoured me most generously.’ Riveaux scooped up a pile of banknotes from the table and slipped them into his pocket. ‘I would be delighted, monsieur le docteur, to stay here all night winning your money, but alas, duty calls.’
Tossing off the last of his drink, he placed his cap on his head and secured it with a light pat. ‘I have made the shocking discovery that some enterprising rogue has been smuggling cases of cognac into Morocco. I must at all costs get to the root of this infamy.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said Dr Lasalle.
Riveaux’s eyes passed appraisingly over all three of us before focusing again on the historian. ‘My powers of premonition, which have never failed me yet, tell me, my friend, that you will soon be setting out on another of your archaeological expeditions.’ He smoothed his moustache with a delicate fingertip. ‘Be assured that I will see to it personally that all the necessary permits are properly signed.’
‘I am very glad to have that assurance.’ Lasalle smiled.
On his way to the door, the prefect paused to address Karrie. ‘And you, mademoiselle, if during your time in Casablanca you should find yourself in any sort of difficulty, please do not hesitate to call on me.’
‘You are very kind,’ Karrie responded guardedly.
Riveaux accorded her a brief courtly salute then made his exit. Listening to his receding footsteps, I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Has he really gone to investigate a case?’ Karrie enquired.
Lasalle indulged in a short laugh. ‘Not unless the mistress he keeps in the rue Veronne is also an underworld informant.’
‘You keep very interesting company,’ I noted, dropping my American accent.
‘When one wishes one’s presence in Casablanca to remain a secret,’ the archaeologist observed with a wry grimace, ‘it helps to be in the good graces of the prefect of police.’
‘From the look of his winnings, his good graces don’t come cheap,’ said Karrie.
Lasalle gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘In these difficult times, even old friends cannot afford to do favours for free. Fortunately, since selling the family vineyard I inherited some years ago, I am not without resources.’ He turned to me with a frown. ‘And you, sir – I take leave to suppose that your name is not Hank Brewster.’
‘My name is Richard Hannay,’ I told him. ‘I’m here on behalf of the National Antiquities Council of Great Britain.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Stannix and his little band of spies.’ The Frenchman wrinkled his nose. ‘I have crossed paths with them before. They have more interest in advancing armies than in advancing science.’
Noting his disapproval, Karrie said, ‘Armand, without the help of Mr Hannay and his friends, I doubt I would have made it this far.’
‘And unless I have been misled,’ I added, ‘your researches into the Knights of St John may prove crucial to the future of Malta and perhaps the whole of Europe.’
‘The war!’ Lasalle gave a melancholy sigh. ‘There is no escaping it, even when one is delving into the distant past.’ He threw Karrie an appealing look. ‘My dear, can we not discuss our work without the presence of this Englishman?’
‘Armand, this is no time to be concerned with nationalities and past wrongs,’ she rebuked him.
‘Bear in mind, doctor,’ I pointed out, ‘that if Malta falls, Britain may fall too, and with it any hope of freedom for your own people.’
Lasalle gave a reluctant grunt of acceptance. ‘You are right, of course, both of you. I have been working alone for so long, so suspicious of everyone, that I have become, what would you say – soured?’
Karrie laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘You are not alone now. I promise you that Mr Hannay is the best friend you could have.’
I was surprised by the compliment, but the doctor appeared to take it to heart.
Lowering his head, he said, ‘Very well then, ma chérie, I am satisfied.’
There was an air of weary resignation about him, as that of a man worn down by age and declining health. Then, fixing his eyes on Karrie, he seemed to recover his vigour.
‘Now tell me, tell me please,’ he asked eagerly, ‘did you find the route to the tomb?’
Karrie reached out and clasped his thin hand. ‘What I found was a series of clues,’ she told him. ‘I only hope you can see the meaning in them. They were in a letter I found in the Easterly family archives. I was not allowed to remove it, but I have all the information stored here.’ She tapped her temple.
Lasalle smiled broadly. ‘Tell me then, and I shall do my best to elucidate the mystery.’
Karrie took a moment to collect her thoughts then recited from memory. ‘First, you must pass the night beneath the eagle’s beak, then look through the eye of the sun to find the way to Kedesh.’
‘It doesn’t sound like much to go on,’ I commented. ‘And what is this Kedesh place?’
‘Kedesh is a city in the book of Joshua,’ Karrie explained to me, ‘appointed as a place of refuge. Here a man pursued by enemies could find sanctuary under the protection of God.’
I did not find this particularly enlightening. I had expected the information we had risked so much to bring here would be of more solid and practical use, not a series of poetic allusions.
Lasalle demonstrated no such disappointment. He snatched up a pencil and paper and eagerly noted down the obscure phrases while Karrie repeated them.
‘I have come across such instructions before,’ he said, tapping the pencil against his lower lip. ‘They represent markers along the route, whether natural or man-made, and thus form a sort of verbal map.’
I was beginning to understand. ‘You mean it’s sort of like turn left at the farmhouse,’ I suggested, ‘carry on to the elm tree and go straight through the cornfield.’
‘Something along those lines, yes,’ the historian affirmed.
‘That is what I suspected,’ said Karrie, ‘though I am at a loss as to how to interpret these particular markers.’
Lasalle rubbed his brow. ‘The vital part is to identify the starting point, the eagle’s beak.’
‘If that refers to an eagle’s nest, then we really are in trouble,’ I said. ‘Those instructions are hundreds of years old and any nest built then will be long gone by now.’
‘Bear in mind that these words are meant to guide the family of Sir Thomas Easterly to their kinsman’s tomb,’ Karrie reminded me, ‘even if that turned out to be a future generation. We are dealing with something that would still be present after many years.’
‘Just so,’ said Lasalle. ‘Please follow me.’
He led us into an adjoining room that was evidently his study. The shelves were packed with antique books and scrolls while various maps adorned the walls, many of them annotated by hand and marked with circles and crosses. In the centre of the room stood a large table with wooden boxes stacked beneath it. Its surface was completely covered with notebooks, manuscripts, photographs and samples of local art.
Lasalle waved a hand over his collection. ‘I have been visiting Morocco for many years, and over the past months I have made several excursions into the mountains searching for traces of lost Christian settlements. I have mapped peaks and valleys never before explored and made many detailed notes, all in hopes of finding my way to the tomb of Sir Thomas Easterly.’
I couldn’t help but be moved by the tenacity of this frail scholar whose thirst for knowledge had driven him to exploits that would have daunted stronger men.
‘And you’re hoping,’ I said, ‘that this infernal beak can be found among all this.’
‘If I remember right, then perhaps so,’ he agreed.
He began rifling through the notebooks on the desk, snatching up one, casting it aside, and flipping open another.
‘Somewhere, somewhere,’ I heard him mutter under his breath.
Karrie meanwhile was making an enraptured survey of the maps and books on display. Her slim fingers traced a reverent journey along shelves laden with leather-bound volumes of obvious antiquity.
Abruptly Lasalle cried out, ‘See! See!’
He was holding out an open book. With a trembling forefinger, he pointed. There, in the middle of a disordered cluster of hastily scrawled notes, was the sketch of a sharp hook of rock, rendered in skilful detail.
‘In my notes here,’ Lasalle declared excitedly, ‘I have named this distinctive formation the Talon. But you see, do you not?’
The thrill of discovery in his words was echoed in my own. ‘Yes, I can understand why you would name it the Talon. But it could just as easily be the beak of a gigantic bird of prey.’
‘But where is it?’ asked Karrie, hardly daring to believe that we had indeed found the first step in our journey. ‘Do you have a location?’
‘Yes, yes, these numbers here refer to a particular map.’
As he spoke, Lasalle laid the book down and rummaged about on the desk. Finally he pulled out a map with frayed edges and swept a clutter of native ornaments aside so that they crashed unheeded to the floor. He unfolded the map across the empty space and smoothed it out. Karrie and I watched as he trailed a quivering finger across the Atlas Mountains to where a particular spot was marked with a symbol and a number.
‘My friends, this is where we must go,’ he declared, almost breathless with anticipation. ‘It is here that the eagle’s beak awaits us, and with it, let us pray, the lost secret of the Knights of Malta.’
22
THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT
Back at the Excelsior hotel that night Karrie and I brought Dougal and Jaikie up to date on our meeting with Lasalle. The Frenchman was going to contact us as soon as he had made the necessary arrangements for our expedition into the mountains. The two Die-Hards had led our unskilled pursuers on a merry dance through the streets of Casablanca before bringing them to the edge of a rather smelly canal. Here the Scots caught the two Arabs from behind and shoved them in for a highly unpleasant plunge.
I revelled in the comfort of my bed that night, knowing that there were to be some rough times ahead. I had hiked through the Highlands of Scotland many times over the years, but the Atlas peaks were much more challenging and I no longer had the resilience of youth on my side when it came to the hardships of trekking across the heights.
A dream came to me of Mary, Peter John and myself standing on a rocky shore, gazing out to sea. We were watching the approach of an elegant sailing ship that was gliding lightly as a feather across the calm and sunlit waters. In the skies above circled a flock of doves, their outspread wings glistening like a fresh fall of snow.
