Redfalcon, page 14
I awoke with that image still fixed in my mind. It gave me hope that one day the three of us would be together again and that peace might finally come to us all.
Later that morning I received a phone call from Ellery Willis inviting me to join him for coffee at l’Etoilerie, a café overlooking the harbour. I arrived to find him alternately sipping espresso from a small cup and nibbling an almond pastry. He ordered the same for me and lit a cigarette with a glance towards the harbour. I guessed he was hoping that the smoke would do something to mask the pungent odours of fish and sweltering vegetables wafting up from the docks.
The busy harbour was quite a sight, expanded and built up by the French to turn the city into a major centre for trade. Huge loading cranes were swinging cargo containers to and from the various foreign freighters crowded there. The flags of Spain and Portugal were prominent among them, while further out I could see a French naval cruiser. I wondered if it had been one of those damaged in the notorious British attack.
We kept our voices low in order not to put too heavy a strain on my uncertain American accent. When the waiter brought my cup Willis pulled a wry face.
‘It’s not great,’ he apologised, ‘but it’s about as near as you can get to real coffee around here. Best not to ask what they make it from.’
My first taste proved him right. It was a bitter brew, forcing me to throw in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar. I gave him the gist of our encounter with the Gestapo man and he smiled ruefully over my account of the Louisiana Cats bursting into the Marseillaise.
‘This really is the darnedest place,’ he chuckled. ‘I think I’m actually going to miss it when they move me on.’
I noticed that he was keeping one eye on the harbour below us. There was no doubt in my mind that he was gathering information for his next report to the US intelligence chiefs.
‘While I appreciate the coffee, such as it is,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to look at the view.’
‘This is a spot where I know we won’t be overheard,’ he explained ‘and I wanted to give you a heads-up. The fact is, there’s been a bit of a buzz in the German security traffic since you got here. I think Casablanca is about to get hot for you and your friends.’
I nodded sombrely. ‘I suppose that’s to be expected. You’ll be glad to know that we’re leaving later today. All I can say about the mission is that we’re headed into the Atlas Mountains.’
Willis gave a low whistle. ‘I expect even the Gestapo will be slow to follow you there.’
At that moment I was taken aback by the sight of three uniformed Germans walking past us only about twenty yards away, as boldly as if they were strolling down the Koenigstrasse. They were headed in the direction of a customs house. Abruptly they burst out laughing as if one of them had just topped off a hilarious joke.
Willis eyed them narrowly. ‘Under the terms of the armistice,’ he informed me, ‘the Germans are allowed to refuel and repair their U-boats here, so for all its Gallic-African charm, Casablanca serves as a base for attacking our Atlantic shipping.’
I followed the Germans with a sour gaze until they passed out of sight. ‘They’re certainly not leaving their French hosts in any doubt as to who’s actually in charge.’
‘There was a time they were more discreet,’ Willis reflected, ‘but now they like to flaunt their presence by marching around in uniform. Given the increase in Reich activity around here, you might want to avoid coming back this way, especially as you’ve caught the eye of Gerber.’
‘If you can find us another route, I’d be very grateful.’
He pondered a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll make a few calls and have travel documents and tickets waiting for you at the El Nouri hotel in Fez. The manager is one of our contacts and he’ll see you on to the train to Tangier.’
‘Tangier is still neutral, I hope.’
‘Sure. The Spanish have moved in for the sake of security, so they say, but the place is still run by an international committee, so neither the Germans nor the Vichy can touch you there.’
I was glad to hear Willis sound so confident and wished that I shared his optimism. Although Tangier might prove a safe refuge under other circumstances, I was sure that Ravenstein was on our trail and absolutely nowhere was beyond his long reach.
When I got back to the hotel, Lasalle had arrived in a battered Citroën 11B, an old six-seater that looked as though it had seen plenty of miles over rough terrain. Dougal and Jaikie were already loading our modest luggage into the back while Karrie and the Frenchman were poring over a map spread across the bonnet of the car.
‘Glad to see you, sir,’ Jaikie greeted me. ‘It seems everything has been cleared for us to move out.’
‘From the sound of it, it’s going to be quite a trip,’ Dougal added eagerly.
I joined the two historians and Lasalle explained his plan.
‘We’re going to follow this road south-east to the town of Kamsoura,’ he said, tracing the route with his forefinger. ‘This will be what you might call our jumping-off point for the Atlas Mountains. I have a contact there I have used many times before and he will supply all we need for our expedition.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘From what Ellery Willis tells me, the sooner we get clear of Casablanca the better.’
Lasalle folded up his map and we all climbed into the car. Soon, to my great relief, we had left the outskirts of the city far behind. Lasalle and Jaikie shared the driving – Lasalle because he knew the route and the idiosyncrasies of his well-travelled vehicle, and Jaikie because he was keen to get behind the wheel of a car he regarded as a classic.
The first stage of our journey was along one of the modern highways constructed by the French to link up the far-flung regions of their protectorate. Initially the terrain was colourless, a flat expanse of barren rocks and dust-covered phosphate mines. By degrees, however, we began to encounter stretches of pasture where herds of grazing goats were watched over by lean mongrel dogs who had been trained to guard them.
Presently, under Lasalle’s direction, we left the main road and struck a rough, gravelled track that led to higher ground. Ahead of us loomed the vivid foothills of the Atlas Mountains. As we ground our way over the stony byway, our venerable Citroën gave a sudden alarming choke. The next instant it jolted to a dead halt.
Lasalle spat out a stream of French profanities as he climbed out of the car. Throwing open the bonnet, he peered at the engine with a growl of vexation.
Jaikie hopped out and joined him. ‘I think the alternator’s cut out,’ he surmised. ‘Have you got a tool box handy?’
Lasalle nodded curtly and pointed to the boot.
While Jaikie rummaged about for the tools, Dougal, Karrie and I got out to stretch our legs. Tier upon tier, the Atlas Mountains rose majestically before us. Even in summer, crowns of snow capped the highest peaks and glistened under the sun. I took a deep breath, savouring the herb-scented atmosphere. After only a few moments, however, I found myself coughing as a dramatic change struck the air.
From the arid lowlands to our rear a wind was kicking up, carrying with it a stream of dust. With an eerie howl it swept towards us, causing the ranks of evergreens on the nearby slopes to shudder like frightened sheep. Watching the roiling cloud bear down on our little party, I was reminded of the plagues of Egypt from the book of Exodus. This, however, was no curse from God, but nature’s own fury.
Bent over the engine, Jaikie became aware of the ominous shadow drawing over us. Immediately on the alert, he pulled himself up straight and slammed down the bonnet.
‘Sandstorm!’ he yelled.
‘Vite! Vite!’ cried Lasalle. ‘Everyone into the car at once!’
We bundled inside and quickly rolled up the windows.
Dougal pressed his nose against the glass, wide-eyed. ‘How can there be a sandstorm?’ he objected incredulously. ‘I thought the Sahara was on the other side of the mountains.’
‘There are other deserts to the west of us,’ Lasalle informed him, ‘and when the winds rise from that quarter . . .’
There was no need for any further explanation. Twisting funnels of sand, ten to fifteen feet high, were now whirling around us like crazed dervishes. The howl of the wind rose to a banshee screech as it enveloped us in a smothering shroud of sand. It rasped over the paintwork and seeped in through vents and cracks to cover the car’s interior in a layer of terracotta dust.
It caked over the windows, entirely blocking out the world beyond, and plunging us into a lightless obscurity so absolute it was as if we had been swept out of this world and cast into a bottomless Stygian pit. We huddled together, as though seeking safety from some ravenous lion that had come roaring out of the western desert to devour us.
After what seemed an eternity, the shrieking wind dwindled away, and a few feeble rays from the dying sun began to filter through the dusty air. Even through the murky window I could see that the road had utterly vanished beneath deep layers of sand. It was piled up in solid dunes against the car doors, trapping us inside.
23
‘YOU ARE A GAZELLE’
Jaikie laboriously cranked down his driver’s window then squirmed outside. The rest of us could only look on as he crawled his way over the dune until he found firm footing. With long, slow scoops of his hands he eventually cleared the door and hauled it open. One by one we emerged, relieved to be free of the dusty confines of our trapped vehicle.
Even working as a team, it took us some time to dig the car out, and by the time we were done night had fallen. Working by the light of an electric torch, Jaikie and Lasalle laboriously cleared the carburettor intake and dusted off the engine. Only then did they dare to start the motor, which wheezed worryingly at the first few attempts before growling into renewed life.
Lasalle switched it off and gave the Citroën a fond pat. He looked up at the stars, which were now penetrating the hazy remnants of the storm, and cleared his throat.
‘We are still some hours from Kamsoura,’ he informed us all.
‘It’s going to be hard enough to keep to the track,’ said Jaikie, ‘let alone trying it in the dark.’
‘Look, it seems to me that after all we’ve been through, we’re pretty much all in,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we get some sleep and see if we can find our way in the morning?’
This suggestion was met with weary murmurs of assent. After cleaning out the inside of the car as best we could, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible with the blankets we had brought and settled down for some welcome rest beneath a sky now brilliant with diamond-sharp stars.
Dawn broke blue and clear. Dragging ourselves stiffly from the car, we breakfasted on dates, biscuits and water. Karrie shook some grit from her luxuriant hair and peered out at the sand-covered landscape before us. All trace of the road had been covered over by the storm.
‘I hope you can find the route, Armand,’ she said. ‘It feels as if we’re in the middle of a desert right now.’
Lasalle fished a set of field glasses from the glove compartment and carefully surveyed the landscape. Standing beside him, I searched with naked eyes for some indication of where our road might lie buried. I was completely baffled, but the Frenchman gave a sudden cry of delight.
‘Look, over there!’ he urged, thrusting the glasses into my hands and pointing dramatically.
Peering intently, I was able to make out a rough stone obelisk a few hundred yards away poking up above the sand. ‘It looks like a small monument of some sort,’ I observed. ‘Are you saying that you recognise it?’
‘It is one of a series of markers laid down every hundred yards by the Berbers centuries ago,’ Lasalle informed me. ‘They mark out the caravan routes, and if we follow them they will lead us to Kamsoura.’
‘Well, thank goodness for history!’ Dougal declared with a laugh.
We gathered up our things and began packing them back into the car. We were just about to set off when Lasalle gave a sudden grunt of pain and staggered up against the vehicle, laying a hand on the bonnet to steady himself.
Karrie flew to his side. ‘Are you all right, Armand?’ she queried anxiously.
He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘It is just a touch of heartburn. No need for concern.’
As he turned away from us, I saw him take a small tube from his pocket and slip a pill into his mouth. After a few deep breaths he gave us a smile.
‘You see, it is nothing at all. Come, let us go!’
Before climbing into the driver’s seat, Jaikie drew me aside.
‘I’m not a doctor,’ he said, ‘but I’ll swear those are glycerine capsules he’s taking.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘exactly what would be prescribed for a man with a heart condition.’
With nothing more to go on, we let the matter rest.
After an hour of following the ancient caravan route we saw the road emerge from beneath its sandy covering. A welcome stretch of greenery opened up ahead and soon we were travelling through lush woodland that lifted our spirits immeasurably.
The road took a winding path through a flowering forest which gradually gave way to lofty stands of cedar, some of the trees measuring close to two hundred feet. At last we reached Kamsoura on the banks of the Oum el Rada river, driving through an ornate gate of obvious antiquity. The houses were painted carmine red, while the woodwork of the windows and doors was a vibrant turquoise. As we drove down the street, bands of barefoot children ran after us, cheerfully waving and yelling at the foreigners in their big car.
We parked at a hostel Lasalle had used before and took rooms there for the night. It was simple and clean and we were glad of the chance to freshen up before setting out on foot for the home of the Frenchman’s friend Zouvier.
‘Even a small car could not pass through the narrow alleys of the medina,’ he explained. ‘Besides, it will be a chance to stretch our legs after that long drive.’
When we reached the centre of the old town, a broad square opened up before us, filled with the hubbub of a busy market.
It was the smell that hit me first, a heady mixture of horse refuse, charcoal smoke, perfumes and spices. Then came the noise, the rhythm of drums and castanets and the voices of hawkers crying out their wares, everything from orange juice to gaudy jewellery. Standing out from the rest of the din came the braying of donkeys and the excited sounds of barter.
Visually it was a seething mass of colour – patterned rugs, shimmering silks, gold, silver and sparkling gems. There were fruit stands filled with oranges, lemons and pomegranates. Meat stalls too, one of which, from the severed camel’s head suspended over it, I guessed to be selling cuts from that particular animal.
In an open space by a fountain, an aged but animated storyteller was weaving his tale before an enraptured audience. His recitation was lent additional drama by the accompaniment of a drum and a guitar. I wondered if his thrilling yarn was something from the Thousand and One Nights or some more local legend.
While the others were distracted, I drew Karrie in for a private word. Nodding towards Lasalle, I said, ‘You do realise your old mentor is a sick man, don’t you?’
Several yards ahead of us the Frenchman was enthusiastically pointing out to Jaikie and Dougal a group of Gnaoua musicians in their distinctive blue robes and caps decorated with shells. They were playing on three-stringed instruments like long-necked lutes which produced a sound that was almost hypnotic.
Karrie’s jaw tightened, as if she were unwilling to speak. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said at last.
‘If the man is in poor health,’ I suggested, ‘he should let us carry on without him, for his own good.’
Karrie shook her head emphatically. ‘That is impossible.’
‘Karrie, aren’t you afraid that the hardships that lie ahead might well kill him?’ I asked gently.
Her large grey eyes turned on me with a heartfelt appeal. ‘Richard, you could not be more wrong. Don’t you see? The journey, the quest, this is all that is keeping him alive.’
I had known such things before, men whose bodies were giving out on them, being driven by an ambition, a dream, a destination, to rise above any physical weakness. Armand Lasalle appeared to be just such a man.
Beyond the market we followed a cobbled alleyway to a pink-painted riad, a typical Moroccan townhouse fronted by a walled courtyard. We edged around an ornamental pool, the cool surface of which was liberally sprinkled with rose petals. It was clear from the welcoming attitude of the servant who admitted us that Lasalle had sent word on ahead and we were expected. Bowing and smiling, the servant led us inside and up a stairway to the flat roof where our host awaited us.
From here we were treated to a splendid view over the town, all the way to the olive groves that spread across the plain right up to the outlying crags of the Atlas range. There, built into the rock face, was an imposing kasbah, a rugged fortress raised up ages ago in defiance of the invading Europeans.
The spacious rooftop was spread with carpets and cushions to provide comfortable seating, with small tables laid out here and there at knee level. Zouvier, the owner of the house, rose to greet us warmly. He was a stout man with a cherubic face and enormous eyebrows which twitched expressively as he spoke. Once the servant had presented us to him by name, Zouvier sent him off to summon food and refreshments while we seated ourselves.
Settling down on his capacious cushion, Zouvier leaned towards Armand Lasalle with intense interest. ‘You are well, my friend? And in good health?’
‘Apart from those pains which are the inevitable harbingers of age. And you, Zouvier? You are well? And your children?’
‘I am as robust as the great oak.’ Zouvier grinned and beat a fist against his chest while his impressive eyebrows hoisted themselves high on his forehead. ‘The children thrive like a garden in the spring rains.’
