“They were understandable, given the circumstances.”
“They were unforgivable,” she replied sternly, her hands still busy with their cloth. “Almost as unforgivable as my thoughts.”
“Edna,” her husband murmured.
“I have raged against Patrique ever since my daughter’s disappearance. But in my heart I have always known that the girl probably thrust herself upon him and demanded that he send her.”
“Lilliana positively adored the man,” Peter Goss added. “She would have done anything for him. Anything.”
Pierre appeared behind Frau Goss and asked, “These are the parents of Lilliana?”
The sounds of English words turned both their heads. Peter Goss was the first to see, and gasped at the sight. Frau Goss cried aloud. “You!”
“Allow me to introduce Patrique’s brother,” Jake said, “Major Pierre Servais.”
“I would never have believed it,” Peter Goss murmured. “Even seeing it with my own eyes, I still am having difficulty.”
Edna Goss had staggered back to be steadied by her husband. “Patrique told us he had a twin, but never would I have imagined the resemblance.”
“Forgive me,” Pierre said, his German halting. “Do you perhaps speak English or French?”
“Our English is much better,” Peter Goss replied for both of them and released his wife to offer one unsteady hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Major.”
“Please, call me Pierre.” Despite the extra sleep, distress was clearly taking its toll. His skin was drawn taut over his features, and his eyes bore the weight of exhaustion. He bowed toward the mother and said, “You have a most remarkable and brave daughter, madame.”
“Thank you,” Edna Goss said, finding her voice. “The colonel tells me she was ill.”
“Jake,” he corrected.
“That is so,” Pierre replied. His tone was formal, his bearing rigid, as though holding himself erect by strength of will alone. “But when we left she was recovering nicely. Hopefully by now her strength will be restored.”
“You look as though you have been ill yourself,” Frau Goss said.
Pierre did not bother to deny it. “In spirit,” he replied, his eyes seeking Jake. “Thankfully I have friends who minister to me in my hour of need.”
“Enough of this chatter,” the priest said crossly, poking his grizzled head out of the doorway. “There is food, and it is hot, and I am hungry. The talk will keep, the food will not. Come and sit.”
The Moroccan lamb stew, called tangeen, was delicious. It was cooked in a clay pot, with quarter moons of potatoes set in a rich sauce of meat and pungent spices. Jake took three heaping portions and stopped only when his belly positively refused to accept another bite. “That was wonderful, Frau Goss.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Father Mikus agreed, his eyes turned owlish from an overstuffing of rich foods. “Your cooking is a blessing, Edna.”
“It is the least I could do,” she replied, her nervous hands again busy with the cloth in her lap. “After what I said—”
“Enough,” the priest said, but without his customary rancor. He switched into German and said, “The good colonel has demonstrated the best kind of forgiveness by forgetting what you have said.”
“It is true,” Jake agreed.
“If you find Patrique,” she said hesitantly, her eyes on her ever-active fingers, “tell him,” and here her voice became as downcast as her gaze. “Tell him I forgive him and ask his forgiveness in turn.”
“You have it,” Jake replied. “If he is half the man I know his brother to be, I am sure he has long since done what you ask.”
“Excuse me,” Pierre said in English, rising from the listlessness that had held him throughout the meal. “You are speaking of my brother?”
“Only that he is a fine man,” Frau Goss replied in her heavily accented English. “Would you tell him that for me, please? That I said he is a good and fine man.”
“After you left us this morning,” Peter Goss said, picking up for his wife, “I had a thought. There was a very dear friend of Patrique’s, the son of friends, people who escaped with us.”
“Erich Reich. Of course. I should have thought of that myself,” Father Mikus agreed. “He was Patrique’s confidant. Erich was not actually connected to the Resistance. He worked in his father’s shop. Only Patrique, Peter, and I knew of his true role. We decided it was better that way. You see, many of our funds came from his father’s shop.”
“He was killed toward the end of the war,” Peter Goss said sadly. “Such a waste. There were several uprisings as the Nazis were pulling out of Marrakesh. It appears that Erich was caught in one by accident and shot. Frau Reich died two months later, they say of an illness, but we know it was from grief.”
“We understand from Lilliana,” Jake said, “that Patrique had come to the office that night because he was supposed to be meeting a messenger. He sent your daughter because no one else was there.”
“And because she insisted,” Frau Goss said to her lap and shook her head. “I know, I know. I can hear her now. Ach, Lilliana, Lilliana, what you have done.”
Peter Goss reached over and patted his wife’s hand. Then he said, “Perhaps it would be worthwhile for us to go and speak with Herr Reich, Erich’s father.”
“I am not sure that would be a good idea,” Father Mikus said worriedly. “Anyone who sees Pierre will immediately think it is his brother. And the Kasbah is Ibn Rashid’s domain.”
“Even more reason to go now.” Pierre was immediately on his feet. “We shall take the battle to the lion’s lair.”
“But without the two of you,” Jake said to Peter Goss. “It may be unsafe for you to be seen with Pierre, in case he is mistaken for Patrique by the wrong people.”
“It is a good point. I will lead you there myself.” Father Mikus raised his hand to still Peter Goss’s protest. “You have a daughter to think of now.”
Frau Goss asked, “And yourself?”
“I am an old man who has nothing to lose but his troubles.” He turned to Pierre. “You should wear something other than your uniforms. The Kasbah has defied control for centuries. It is full of great hatred for all foreign armies.”
* * *
The city’s walls were high and entered through great domed portals. Squadrons of Foreign Legion soldiers stood sullen guard. Through the entry poured a vast rainbow of humanity. They paid the desert dragoons no heed whatsoever.
The Arabs surrounding them wore a variety of robes and headdresses to mark their tribes—multicolored robes with knitted caps for the mountain Berbers; long, embroidered white robes for the city nobility; sky blue for desert Moors. The women sailed by in isolated majesty, some covered from head to foot, others holding a symbolic scarf entwined with two fingers, their beauty as striking as their fierce pride. Seldom would a man risk a glance, no matter how covered or uncovered she might be; to do so invited the vengeance of a jealous guard or tribesman, never far away.
The favorite city transport seemed to be either by foot or by donkey. Arab traders sat with shoulders bowed low, their turbans unwound to veil their face in cooler shadows, their side bags bulging with the day’s wares.
“This is the central square,” Father Mikus said as he led them through the jostling throngs. “The locals know it as the Place of Heads. Before the French arrived, all public executions took place here. Then the heads were set on stakes as a warning to all who passed.”
Jake felt the thrill of stepping into the unknown. “This place is beyond anything I’ve ever seen before.”
“The Moors and Berbers, the first settlers of Marrakesh, were ancient peoples, old as the human race,” Father Mikus went on. “Their heritage was mixed and rich with legend. In the twelfth century, these tribes became swept up in the Arabs’ tide of conquest. They heard the stories of Mohammed, the prophet of Allah. They were granted the choice of either submitting to Arab rule and accepting Islam, or knowing swift death.”
/> The great Khutubian mosque dominated the Marrakesh cityscape. It was visible from everywhere inside the ancient walled city. Not even the great wall was permitted to rise as high. They passed by a crowd of Arabs washing their hands and faces and feet at a communal trough as part of the ritual required before entering the mosque.
“The conquerors mingled with the local tribes and left behind civilizations which were both Arab and African,” Father Mikus went on. “Though their religion became Islam, it was an Islam decorated with countless centuries of legend and superstition and African desert ways.”
Water sellers cried their raven calls, their backs bowed by heavy copper urns. They wore broad, fringed hats to keep off flies that gathered at the scent of water.
“Marrakesh means ‘the red city.’ Under the Moorish empire, Marrakesh became the foremost city of Africa, the link between the conquered territories of Spain and those in the lands south of the great Sahara. The city and the countryside has changed little from its foundations in the twelfth century until the end of this war. But now Winston Churchill comes here to convalesce, and airplanes have begun linking Marrakesh to such far-flung places as London and New York. The modern world is crowding in. Whispers of change are being heard, at least within the city walls. In the rest of Morocco, time remains frozen as it has been for seven hundred years.”
At a second set of older, derelict gates, Father Mikus stopped. “From here on you must take great care. It is doubtful that Ibn Rashid would strike in the light of day, but one can never tell with the likes of him. This is the entrance to the Kasbah, and within these walls the traders are a law unto themselves.”
Chaos ruled beyond the ancient portal. The ways grew ever narrower, ever more crowded with camels and donkeys and traders and Arab patrons. Every two or three paces opened a new stall, each staffed by two or more people, all shouting the worth of their wares. They passed down great open halls of copper, of carpets, of spices piled into multicolored mountains. The smells were rich and redolent and as heavy as the heat.
Moorish wood turners fashioned everything from table legs to statues. They spun the wood at a blinding speed, using a one-handed instrument that looked like a clumsy bow. With their free hand they held the cutting instrument, which was set in place through the toes of one foot. Father Mikus told Jake and Pierre that the quality of this work had won fame throughout the world.
The wool market was a separate entity within the Kasbah. Long before the Europeans discovered modern colors, the priest explained, the Moors were exporting their brilliantly dyed wools, fashioned at the wells of Marrakesh. Here the brightly colored strands were looped on poles and hung overhead. Great rainbows of reds and blues and violets and sunburst oranges festooned the passages and transformed the crumbling market buildings. The winding Kasbah paths became tunnels with shadows of gloriously rich hues.
Beyond the wool market, the way became quieter and less crowded. Beggars abounded, their pleas a plaintive chant as constant as the dust. “The gold market,” Father Mikus explained. “The beggars become far worse when one departs. Thus it is that few come here unless they intend to buy, and then only with the company of guards.”
“Patrique!” The cry was so piercing it shocked the entire venue to stillness. A chubby, gray-haired man wearing a remarkable mixture of Arab djellabah and dark suit coat and vest came bustling up. “Am I dreaming? Can this truly be?”
“Swiftly, inside, all of us,” Father Mikus urged, herding them all back down the path and into an open-faced shop lined with wooden-and-glass display boxes. The boxes contained a king’s ransom in gold—necklaces, bangles, nose rings, book covers, stamped blocks.
“I regret, monsieur,” Pierre replied once they were inside, “that I must disappoint you.”
“Herr Reich, this is Major Pierre Servais,” Father Mikus said as gently as his rough demeanor allowed. “Patrique’s brother. And Colonel Jake Burnes.”
The man deflated at the news. “Of course, of course. It would be too much to hope.” He fumbled about for chairs and set them in the shop’s cramped little center. “Sit, sit, please, you are my guests.”
Pierre seated himself, asked, “Then you have heard nothing from my brother?”
“Nothing since, since . . .” Herr Reich allowed the sentence to dissolve into empty space. His words and motions appeared slightly out of focus, as though his hold on reality hung by a slender thread. He blinked and looked about, forcing himself to remember who they were. “You will take tea?”
“Tea we can have anywhere,” Father Mikus said, leaning forward. “How are you, old friend?”
“I go through the motions,” he replied faintly. “Buy and sell, pretend that it all matters. But there is little left for me now.”
“Lilliana is alive,” the priest told him. “These men brought word with them.”
“Oh, that is good news,” Herr Reich said, brightening momentarily. “The Goss family will be delighted.”
“You know they have spoken of immigrating to America,” Mikus went on. “Perhaps you should think of joining them.”
The plump little man hesitated, then shook his head. “My wife and son are buried here. How could I leave them behind?”
“A new life,” the priest murmured.
For a moment Herr Reich appeared not to have heard. Then he looked at Pierre and demanded, “You think that your brother might still be alive?”
“A rumor, nothing more,” Pierre said, every word an effort. “But we must be sure.”
“Yes, of course you must. Patrique was like a second son. He brought me and my family out. He helped me set up this little business. My Erich thought the world of him. I was a jeweler in Frankfurt before the Nazis destroyed our world. I was condemned for the crime of having a Jewish grandmother.”
Herr Reich stared at Pierre as he rambled, but clearly was seeing another man. “Patrique was a friend. He was a mensch. If you find him, tell him I wait and hope for his return. Tell him all I have is his.”
“I will do so,” Pierre replied quietly.
When Pierre seemed unable to press the matter home, Jake said, “It appears that a man called Ibn Rashid believes Patrique is alive.”
Herr Reich jerked as though struck by an electric current. “You know this for a fact?”
“He sent two assassins first to Marseille and then to Gibraltar hunting for Patrique.”
The jeweler became increasingly agitated. “Then there is hope. Real hope. Ibn Rashid is not one to chase after shadows.”
“Can you think why he might want Patrique dead?” Jake pressed.
“No, but whatever it is, rest assured that the reason is big. Very big. Ibn Rashid is a power here in the Marrakesh Kasbah. Not even the Nazis were able to dislodge him. They found it better to use him, which strengthened his power even more than before. They say his tentacles reach all the way to Paris.”
“Paris,” Jake glanced at Pierre, but his friend sat mute and blind to all but his thoughts. He said, “We heard from Lilliana that Patrique had evidence of a traitor.”
“Of this I know nothing,” Herr Reich said definitely. “But if the traitor was high enough to grant Ibn Rashid protection in the present transition, and if Patrique knew enough to topple the traitor from power, that would certainly be reason for the thief to send his minions hunting.”
Jake felt that something was coming within grasp, something that would help unravel the puzzle. “Our trail goes cold here. We heard Patrique was headed for Gibraltar, but it looks like he never arrived. If he had started for Gibraltar and then found his way blocked, could you think of anywhere else he might have gone?”
Herr Reich pondered long and hard, then announced, “Telouet.”
“Where is that?”
“A fortress kingdom high in the Atlas mountains. It is older even than Marrakesh, older than the first Moorish Empire. The sultan there holds life-and-death power over the entire central Riff plains. And all highland trade routes traverse the Riff valley, whic
h means tribute must be paid to Sultan Musad al Rasuli. The kingdom’s power had waned early in the century, once the Barbary pirates were cleared away and the seas around Tangiers have been made safe for traders. But when the Nazi chokehold became too tight, some of us began shipping in supplies along the ancient Atlas passes.”
“Supplies and people both,” Mikus added.
“Indeed,” the gold merchant affirmed. “Erich and Patrique often spoke of using Telouet as an emergency escape route.” Herr Reich shook his head. “I was against it. I have worked with Sultan Musad al Rasuli enough to know him as a man who stays trustworthy only so long as there is more gold to be had.”
Jake turned to his friend, but Pierre remained locked within himself. Jake touched Pierre’s shoulder and urged, “Did you hear this?”
Pierre roused himself with visible effort. “It appears that we must go and check out this, this . . .”
“Telouet,” Jake supplied impatiently.
“Difficult,” Herr Reich said doubtfully.
“Dangerous,” Mikus added.
“We must,” Pierre said. “Can you help?”
“There is a Berber supply caravan leaving at dawn to cross the mountains,” Reich said. “I know because they are delivering what I hope will be my final request for supplies. The French are still not in full control of the harbors, and shipment of anything except emergency goods remains sporadic, so I must transport overland. But the tribute I must pay, as well as the payments to the tribal chieftains who bring in my goods—” He shook his head. “Together it is almost as much as the goods themselves. I hope this will be the last time. As I do with every shipment.”
“Will they take us with them?” Jake pressed.
“If there is a reason.” Herr Reich pondered a moment, then brightened. “What do you know about automobiles?”
“Excellent,” Father Mikus muttered. “A splendid idea.”
“You mean, as in repairing?” Jake shrugged. “As much as the next guy, I guess.” He looked at Pierre, willing his friend to hold the world in focus. “What about you?”
Gibraltar Passage Page 10
