***
The benefit of the long line originating indoors at the Slipstream Green counter was its snaking outside by several hundred yards. Those of us arriving at its very end readily enjoyed the pleasant mid-seventy degree temperatures and, much to our good fortune, it appeared several hours of such delight had only just begun.
"Where's my luggage?" Ethelene rallied and was now able to form coherent sentences. "Why isn't my luggage here?"
"Your belongings, my dear, most probably remain in the hold of our faithful Slipstream Green transport."
"That's no good! I need them here! Now!"
"You should travel with one bag, miss," Pat offered.
"Impossible! Don't get smart with me, young man." She made a halfhearted attempt to brush the mud from her dress. "Look at this. And with nothing to change into, thanks to you!"
"Hush, Ethelene." I spoke softly, masking an urge to step really hard on her foot. "All we want to do at this point is leave Casablanca."
"Did I hear someone say he desires to leave this our city?" A sidewalk peddler, wearing a neatly kept beige gandora, approached us with a plastic cooler brimming with bottled water. "A way out of Casablanca?"
"Actually, I verbalized the thought, yes. This entire line of people, however, holds dear the same concept."
"You're not English. You're American!" He popped open the cooler and dug out an ice cold plastic container of Avian. "Ten dollars."
"What?"
"Give me that!" Ethelene grabbed the bottle from the man. "Pay him!"
"Like the lady says, right?" He smiled at me.
"Your English is impeccable, salesman." I groused, handing him a battered sawbuck.
"Eton, ninety one. And you?"
I opted not to respond directly to his inquiry. "We need passage to Tunis as quickly as humanly possible."
"You won't get that standing here." He looked around, admiring the line now starting to reverse direction, pushing us farther from the distant doorway. "You need a letter of transmit."
"Beg your pardon?" I felt the hot sun must be having an effect on me. "A what?"
"Ladders of transients. You need them."
"What we need is a taxi, my good man."
"And another bottle of water." Ethelene helped herself to the abundant supply and proceeded to douse the upper part of her dress with its content.
"Ten dollars," the vendor demanded, extending his hand. "Would you care to run a tab?"
"There are no taxis in sight," I muttered to Pat while forking over another Hamilton. "Ethelene, control yourself, please. It'll soon be less expensive to buy you a new dress."
"Where in this sand pile am I going to find something acceptably seasonal, Baron?" Her thrashing sent debris over the front of my pants.
"Would you care for taxi service?" The man smiled and let loose a shrill whistle without waiting for our answer. "My cousin take you to the train station for three hundred dollars."
"One fifty!" Pat lowered himself into the man's face. "Or we summon the prefect."
"It's a somewhat free country. Summon whoever you like." He pried his way through the line, waving to a shabby green vehicle of unknown make. "My cousin's here. You haggle with him."
Hastening ourselves before a bidding war broke out with fellow disgruntled travelers, we jammed into the makeshift hackney, pressing a damp and bitter Ethelene in the middle of the back seat. "To the train station, good friend. The one with service to Tunis."
"Certainly. Once payment is achieved."
"Here!" I handed forward three fifty dollar bills. "Not a penny more."
"My understanding is you will pay --"
"Listen, friend," Pat calmly interrupted, placing the firm grip of his large paw on the driver's shoulder, "that's the end of the bartering. Either drive or get out."
Cousin let out a stream of invective lost upon us, which increased with his frustration when the cab immediately stalled out.
"Baron, look!" Ethelene reached across me, tapping her finger against the half-open window. "It's Jan Brat, Wayland's head of European security!"
"Drive, Moroccan, drive!"
The starter churned, clicking like an antique electric fan, bringing the modest engine to rumbling life. Our initial pace was such we were passed by casual walkers wandering the parking lot. Bridgework's man, alerted by Ethelene's outcry, even had time to adjust his shoe before strolling after us and peering through the sedan's the rear window.
"What kind of French name is Jan Brat?" Pat twisted to get a better look at our pursuer. "Don't you mean Jean Bart?"
"Jan Brat, you Irish egghead! Open your jug ears!"
"A Washington egghead, actually. Non beltway."
I knew nothing of Jan Brat, except that his being part of the Loo guards made him an instant danger to us. I tossed another fifty onto the front seat. "Friend, we need to depart quickly, despite the colorful appellations you're giving to your vehicle."
"Bite me, college boy!" The car roared to life, nearly coming off the ground as the driver banked second gear and popped the clutch. "Last train out of town for you!"
"What's the plan, Baron?" Pat groped for a nonexistent seatbelt before giving up.
"A good lesson for you, son. Apply your knowledge and predilection for World War Two. Pop quiz. Who once stood in Casablanca wondering how to reach Tunis in November, nineteen forty two?"
"For Christ's sake, you two are insufferable," Ethelene said, wringing out her dress on the floor and propping open her purse. "I'm calling Wayland and giving him a piece of my mind."
"Even though your husband probably wants you dead?" Pat was sidetracked from our history lesson.
"Death shall find me somewhere, someday, but it won't be at the hands of that oaf Brat. Not if I have anything to say about it."
"Patton's your answer, Baron."
"Absolutely right. Therefore, we must think like Patton and entitle our strategy, with Angel in mind, 'Operation Carry the Torch'. Onward to Tunis via Oran and Algiers. In doing so, we shall defeat Bridgework's plan of arriving first in Tunis."
"Hello, Wayland?"
"Thereby getting the jump on searching for the flash drive."
"Why wouldn't you expect me to call? I'm pissed off and for damned good reason. First, I lost all my luggage at the end of a Casablancan runway --"
"Don't tell him that!" Pat said with great alarm.
"Casablanca. Right. Well, we're in a taxi now."
"It's fine, Pat," I said, waving off his fear. "Let her give this a go, right?"
"We left him behind, the brute! Of course I'm not telling you where we're headed. Yes, he can hear every word!"
"Tell him our plan is to intercept him and Oz Moeziz."
"Yes, yes, yes. You remain in Lisbon, dear, because we're coming after you there. Right now!"
Pat chuckled. "As if he'll stay put."
"And I'm so disappointed in you for sending Jan Brat to assassinate us. How gauche! I much prefer a younger Italian hit man. I simply refuse to die if Brat is involved!" She slammed the phone shut. "I had the satisfaction of divorcing him once and, by God, I hope to have it again."
"Bridgework's tasteless choice of executioners aside, what's the good word?"
"They're hung up in Spain due to your friend's lack of a passport, of all things," Ethelene said triumphantly. "It appears Wayland's pull is waning with foreign customs."
"Then let it wane on their plane in Spain," I observed, feeling rather upbeat about our current position in the rush to Tunis.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 42
