He pushed on the left rudder pedal and advanced the throttle as he turned onto the runway. During his takeoff roll, he test-fired his guns.
It was later learned from observers on the ground that there had been fifty-odd Mitsubishi dive-bombers and about as many Zeroes, possibly as many as fifty-six. In the air at the time, things were much too confused for anyone to count with any degree of accuracy.
The engagement didn’t last long. The carrier-based Japanese were operating at the far end of their operational radius, and when they had done what they had come to do, they headed home.
Whittaker made two passes over Iba. The runways were blocked with furiously burning P40s, shot down as they tried to land, and others, who had landed before the attack began, and been destroyed by bombs and machine-gun fire. The Japanese had gotten all three fuel trucks.
Whittaker saw the Old Man, standing and watching his aircraft burn. Hands on hips, he looked up as Whittaker flew over, but he made no signal of any kind.
Whittaker turned the nose of the P40-E toward Clark Field, forty miles away. There was no way he could land at Iba, and with the fuel trucks gone, no reason to.
Marrakech, Morocco December 9, 1941
Two days after the burial of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, Thami el Glaoui, a man in his late sixties, wearing his customary white robes, climbed into his Delahaye convertible sedan and went to the mosque to pray that Allah had taken the pasha of Ksar es Souk into heaven.
When he had finished praying, he dismissed his bodyguards with a curt wave of his hand and walked slowly and alone through the cool arches of the mosque, circling and circling again the fountain and pool.
This was always comforting when he was troubled and confused. The mosque had been there for several hundred years before the French had come, and would be there several hundred years after the French were gone. Thinking about that helped him put things into perspective. And often it reminded him of the quatrain of Haji Abdu Yezdi: ‘‘Cease, atom of a moment’s span, to hold thyself an all in all. The world is old, and thou art young.’’
He missed Hassan el Moulay, the late pasha of Ksar es Souk, both personally and in the discharge of the duties Allah the All-Wise had placed on him.
Personally, they had been close friends. And Hassan had been an especially valuable chamberlain, whose intelligence network was beyond price.
As he walked slowly through the mosque, his face hidden under the hood of his burnoose, Thami el Glaoui recalled that Hassan el Moulay had made first report on Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz and Sturmbannführer Johann Müller not long after their arrival. These two were most likely the people responsible for his friend’s assassination.
The report had given their ranks and titles—minister in the case of von Heurten-Mitnitz (which, el Moulay had told el Glaoui, gave him equal footing in diplomatic protocol with the consuls general of the governments accredited to the French colonial authority and the kingdom of Morocco) and security adviser in the case of Müller. It gave the locations and telephone numbers of their quarters, and the make and license numbers of the automobiles assigned for their use. Within days, their dossiers contained information about their alcohol, drug, and sexual proclivities. Hassan el Moulay had also discovered, among other things, that it was von Heurten-Mitnitz’s intention to stop the flow of jewels and currency from France through Morocco.
The intelligence apparatus set up by the pasha of Ksar es Souk had been extraordinarily capable. Thami el Glaoui wondered if Allah the All-Wise had chosen to strike the pasha of Ksar es Souk down because the pasha had grown too sure of himself.
There were several questions connected with his death. The first and most important of these was whether Hassan himself had been the intended victim, or were the assassins actually after Sidi Hassan el Ferruch? Thami el Glaoui was inclined to believe the latter.
If the assassins were sent by the king of Morocco or by the Germans they would have been after the son, not the father. The son was the smuggler. Killing him would have stopped that immediately and simultaneously warned the father that these activities were known.
The answers would come sooner or later, Thami el Glaoui decided. But for now what would happen was in the hands of Allah.
Since the pashas of Ksar es Souk had been hereditary chamberlains to the pashas of Marrakech for three hundred years, and since Sidi Hassan el Ferruch had become pasha of Ksar es Souk on the death of his father, Sidi now assumed the same responsibility for intelligence his father had carried. The apparatus was still in place, and the files his father had built over so many years would now be his.
Only Allah knew if he would use them as well as his father had. El Glaoui had sought an answer in the Koran and in prayer, and had concluded as he walked around the reflecting pool that if Allah did not intend for Sidi Hassan el Ferruch to serve him as loyally and well as his father had, it would be better to find this out now.
Thami el Glaoui was so far pleased with Sidi Hassan el Ferruch. For instance, after Sidi returned from ‘‘buying horses’’ in France, el Glaoui politely suggested that it was time for him to marry and produce children. And, since the Germans were growing suspicious of his travels, he’d suggested that the boy stay out of the public eye as much as possible.
Sidi went that day into the desert to Ksar es Souk and took two Berber wives, both of whom were now pregnant. And then, so far as el Glaoui knew, el Ferruch had not left Ksar es Souk until the day he buried his father.
Immediately afterward el Glaoui once again ordered Sidi back to the palace at Ksar es Souk, with instructions that he was not to leave without his permission. El Ferruch had not been pleased with the order; but el Glaoui had no reason to suspect that he would not do what he was told to do.
Thami el Glaoui was therefore surprised the day after he had walked in the mosque when one of his guards came into his chamber escorting one of Sidi el Ferruch’s Berbers. The Berber had come by motorcycle from the palace at Ksar es Souk carrying a message.
‘‘Noble Father, my lord begs forgiveness for disturbing you, and prays that you will forgive him for seeking audience on such short notice. He is presently en route, and if you cannot find the time for him, I will meet him on the road and so inform him, and he will return to Ksar es Souk to await your pleasure.’’
Thami el Glaoui sat for a full minute before replying. ‘‘Please let the pasha of Ksar es Souk know that I will be honored to offer him what hospitality is at my disposal. And that I pray to Allah the All-Merciful for his safe journey.’’
El Ferruch obviously had something important on his mind.
Sidi el Ferruch arrived in a three-car convoy. In front there was a 1940 Ford convertible coupe, full of heavily armed Berbers, their faces masked. The pasha of Ksar es Souk himself rode in the backseat of a 1939 Buick Limited open touring car; following that was another 1939 Buick Limited, this one a closed sedan, also full of masked and armed Berbers.
Thami el Glaoui, gazing down through a screen, was surprised that el Ferruch did not—as the pasha expected him to—scurry quickly up the stairs into the villa. Instead, he walked to the Ford convertible coupe. And then Thami el Glaoui saw why. El Ferruch had elected to ride in the convertible, dressed as one of his Berbers. If there had been assassin’s bullets they would have been directed at the man impersonating him.
El Ferruch quickly put on the headdress with the golden cords of his rank and then walked quickly into the villa through a knot of his Berbers, all of whom were armed with American Thompson .45-caliber machine pistols.
Thami el Glaoui pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the narrow private flight of stairs leading to the reception room downstairs.
Three minutes later the gaunt old man in white faced the tall, hawklike el Ferruch in the blue robes of a Berber. They kissed, and then walked hand in hand to sit on the red leather hassocks on either side of a round brass table five feet in diameter.
‘‘Allah the All-Merciful has answered my prayers for your safe journey,�
��’ the pasha said as tea and jellied orange slices were put before them.
‘‘Thank you, noble Father,’’ el Ferruch said, ‘‘for receiving me.’’
The pasha slipped an orange slice into his mouth and looked at el Ferruch, his eyebrows raised in question, waiting to hear what el Ferruch wanted.
‘‘I have come about my guest, Eric Fulmar,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘The infidel under your roof,’’ Thami el Glaoui said, ‘‘concerned your father.’’
‘‘When my father was killed, noble Father, Eric Fulmar was in Casablanca, meeting with the master of a ship owned by an Argentine with whom we were in school.’’
‘‘You trust him to negotiate for you?’’
‘‘He suggested the arrangement. In addition, he can move with greater ease than I.’’
‘‘And you trust him?’’ el Glaoui pursued.
‘‘Yes,’’ el Ferruch said simply.
Thami el Glaoui nodded.
‘‘My friend was in the Hôtel Moulay Hassan, protected by my men. After my father was killed, they moved him to my apartment in the Hôtel d’Anfa.’’
‘‘Before or after the transaction was completed?’’ el Glaoui asked practically.
‘‘After, noble Father.’’
‘‘You are sure your profits are safe?’’ el Glaoui asked.
‘‘They are now deposited in the National City Bank of New York in Argentina. Later they will be transferred to New York.’’
‘‘And now that the Americans are drawn into the war?’’
El Ferruch did not respond to the question.
‘‘My friend is in danger,’’ he said.
‘‘Because of the business with the Argentine?’’
‘‘So far as the Germans are concerned, my friend should be in the German Army. He is an embarrassment to his father in Germany,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘His father is a German nobleman, a baron, and he is close to the Nazis.’’
‘‘And if his father is a German, so he should be,’’ Thami el Glaoui decided. ‘‘Is he a man or not?’’
‘‘In every way. He has taken the risks of our trade. My tribesmen respect him. And he enjoys women. But in the end, he thinks of himself as an American. And now that the Americans are in the war, he wishes to go to the American consulate in Rabat and put himself under their protection until he can be sent to America.’’
‘‘And you are asking me to let him go to the American consulate?’’ Thami el Glaoui asked.
‘‘I am asking your advice, noble Father,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘Fulmar has been approached three times by von Heurten-Mitnitz, who has suggested to him that there is a way for him to avoid induction into the German Army.’’
‘‘By informing on us?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘And he told you this?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘He is very loyal to me.’’
Thami el Glaoui inclined his head. Whether in agreement or skepticism el Ferruch was not sure.
‘‘Ahmed Mohammed has learned that the German secret police officer, Müller, intends to return Fulmar to Germany by force. Even though Fulmar has not refused their offer, and pretends that he is still considering it, the Germans now believe that he will never become a reliable agent for them.’’
‘‘Then why hasn’t Müller done it? Is Ahmed Mohammed sure of his information?’’
‘‘Ahmed Mohammed is always sure of his information,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘The Germans are reluctant to enter the Hôtel d’Anfa to take him. However, Germans are waiting outside the hotel grounds. The Sûreté and Deuxième Bureau will look the other way.’’
‘‘The Germans are ‘reluctant’ to enter the hotel because he is protected by your men, is that what you mean?’’
‘‘No,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘Because it would cause trouble with the American consulate.’’
‘‘Why doesn’t he telephone his consulate and ask for their protection?’’
‘‘He has tried that,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘No lines were available. I saw to that.’’
Thami el Glaoui looked at him in genuine admiration.
‘‘I would rather he did not contact the American consulate, ’’ el Ferruch continued. ‘‘I want to take him to Ksar es Souk.’’
‘‘I am old and don’t think clearly. It is hard to see where you are heading.’’
‘‘In the future, as the Americans come more and more into the war, we will need someone to inform us about American attitudes and intentions—and perhaps to use as a go-between.’’
‘‘I’ve become interested, my son,’’ Thami el Glaoui said after he let that sink in a moment, ‘‘that the Filipinos have elected to fight beside the Americans against the Japanese.’’
‘‘I don’t quite follow,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘They do so for one of two reasons,’’ el Glaoui said. ‘‘Because they prefer the devil they know. Or because they believe the Americans’ claim that they will grant them independence. What I am saying is that the French profess to be willing to grant us independence, and I don’t believe them. Why do you suppose the Filipinos believe the Americans? ’’
‘‘Perhaps because they are telling the truth,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘An interesting thought,’’ el Glaoui said.
‘‘The Americans also gave back Cuba to the Cubans,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘If they now possessed Morocco, would they give it back to us?’’ el Glaoui asked rhetorically.
El Ferruch raised both hands, palms up, an elaborate gesture meaning, ‘‘Who could tell?’’
‘‘You have a plan to get your guest past the Germans?’’
‘‘I have, but plans go wrong sometimes,’’ El Ferruch said.
‘‘You are asking me if this is worth an armed confrontation between your men and the Germans—and possibly the Sûreté and the Deuxième Bureau?’’
‘‘And for your permission to take him to Ksar es Souk,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘What makes you think he will want to go to Ksar es Souk?’’
‘‘I’ll tell him that I will protect him from the Germans only if he doesn’t attempt to go to the Americans.’’
‘‘Will he believe this?’’
‘‘Yes, noble Father, I think he will. And he will give me his word of honor to accept the conditions.’’
Thami el Glaoui met his eyes, but el Ferruch could not read his expression. Then he signaled for more tea, and poured it when it came with great care and formality.
‘‘Have you considered that your heart and not your head may be speaking?’’
‘‘That is why I come to ask for your wisdom.’’
‘‘I must look carefully to see what is immediately evident to younger men.’’
The pasha sipped thoughtfully on his small cup for a long time.
‘‘The answer is always in the Koran,’’ he said finally. ‘‘At the risk of arrogance, I sense what the Lord of Lords would have me do. If taking your friend within the walls of Ksar es Souk is the way you believe you may best serve Allah and me, my son,’’ the pasha said, ‘‘then you must do that.
‘‘You are in the hands of Allah,’’ he concluded. ‘‘I will pray for you.’’
Casablanca, Morocco December 10, 1941
When the three-car caravan left Marrakech, there was no way to avoid the attention of the Sûreté, and it was not difficult for the Sûreté to guess its destination. Thus when the three cars reached the outskirts of Casablanca very early in the afternoon, a Citroën sedan was parked beside the Atlantic Ocean road.
It followed them to the Hôtel d’Anfa near Casablanca, but stopped outside the gate. One of the French Deuxième Bureau agents from the Citroën followed el Ferruch and his entourage of blue-robed Berbers up to the rooftop restaurant of the hotel. He had a glass of wine while el Ferruch ate a leisurely luncheon.
At half past three, Sidi el Ferruch nodde
d his head at one of his men. He had seen Eric Fulmar coming off the hotel tennis courts five stories below. Najib Hammi went to the men’s room, and a moment later appeared to sneak out, thereby attracting the attention of the alert agent from the Deuxième Bureau, who immediately began a pursuit that would lead him up and down stairwells, into the basement, through the garden, around the walls, and ultimately, fifteen minutes later, back up to the roof garden, where he had been instructed to sit down and finish his crème caramel.
The moment Najib Hammi and the man from the Deuxième Bureau entered the stairwell, Sidi el Ferruch boarded the elevator and descended to the fourth floor of the hotel, where he kept a six-room apartment.
Sweat-soaked from his tennis, Eric Fulmar was leaning on his dresser, pulling a sock off his foot.
‘‘I wondered when you were going to show up,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m sorry about your father, Ferruch.’’
‘‘We Arabs say, ‘It is the will of God,’ ’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘Who did it?’’
‘‘I don’t know who did it,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘But I know who ordered it done.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Your German friends,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘I have also found out they were after me, and not my father.’’
‘‘I’m not surprised.’’ He laughed. ‘‘But tell me why anyway. ’’
‘‘Why do you think?’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘If they killed me, it would have put you and me out of business, and it would have made it much easier for them to get you back to Germany.’’
‘‘Shit, if that goddamned ship had waited until December eighth to sail, I would be in the middle of the Atlantic by now.’’
‘‘What would you do in Argentina?’’ el Ferruch asked.
‘‘Probably the same thing I do here.’’ Fulmar chuckled. ‘‘Play tennis, and try to get laid.’’
‘‘For someone about to be hauled off to Germany, you’re remarkably cheerful,’’ el Ferruch said.
The Last Heroes Page 26
