Gibraltar Passage

by T. Davis Bunn

  The road changed instantly from dusty stone to polished, close-fitting brick. They circled a third wall, over which peeked the heads of tall date palms.

  “The sultan will personally wish to ask when Rolls Royce motor vehicles ready,” Hareesh warned. “Best you know when he ask.”

  “Tomorrow, sir!” Jake said, keeping to a quick-step march and ignoring the suppressed chuckles behind him. “We’ll know by tomorrow, definitely!”

  Hareesh sniffed his acceptance, passed under a tall portico, and entered a cobblestone yard lined by servants’ quarters and fronting a long line of stables. A large well dominated the center of the yard. “Rolls Royce motor vehicles in four left stalls. You to make most careful inspections, yes?”

  “We inspect, sir!”

  The official bristled at the sound of mirth behind him, wheeled about, and was met with stony expressions. He turned back and cocked his head suspiciously, but Jake responded only with the blank stare of one long trained in dealing with officers who led from the rear. Another sniff, then, “You sleep with cars. I order food.”

  “Very good, sir!” Jake snapped off his salute, then went back to his steed, untied his satchel, accepted the handshake and salutations of the tribesmen, and motioned for Pierre to join him. Together they crossed the yard, the tribesmen calling farewells behind them.

  The stable doors at first refused to give. Jake had to borrow a guard’s rifle and bang long and hard on the rusty hinges before they were able to swing the heavy door wide. Clearly no one had entered these stables in years.

  They set down their satchels in one corner and together drew back the dust cover from the first vehicle. The sight was enough even to raise Pierre from his stupor.

  The great gleaming hood appeared to go on for miles. A pair of burnished headlights as big as soup tureens flanked the massive chrome grillwork, which was crowned by the silver angel with swept-back wings. Huge fenders curved over the front tires swept down and flattened to become chrome-plated running boards. The driver’s compartment had a roll-back leather roof that was cracked along the seams, as was the seat. Yet the damage was nowhere near what could have been expected. The dry desert air had held deterioration to a minimum.

  Jake opened the carriage-type door to the back compartment. The musty air was redolent of saddle leather and luxury. Elegant seats faced a bar of crystal and chrome and walnut burl. A swivel writing desk contained a silver-plated inkwell, leather writing postern, and two gold pens in tortoiseshell holders.

  Jake looked back to where his friend was unfastening the engine cowling. “All the comforts of home.”

  “Come take a look at this.”

  The engine was a straight-eight and appeared to be about fifty yards long. It looked as clean as it had when rolling off the assembly line fifteen years earlier. Jake declared, “You could eat your dinner off this thing.”

  “Nothing looks wrong with this,” Pierre agreed. “Nothing at all.”

  Jake looked at his friend. “You ready to rejoin the land of the living?”

  Pierre kept his eyes on the motor. “We need to talk.”

  “Anytime,” Jake said quietly. “I’ve been waiting—”

  “Ah, gentlemens already at work, is most excellent.” Hareesh bounded into the stable. “Is everything you require?”

  “We could use some tools, sir!” Jake said, coming to rigid attention. He found extraordinary pleasure in seeing Pierre snap to alongside him.

  “Tools are many, on wall in next stable. And equipments. We have much equipments.” He motioned imperiously to a guard, who turned and barked a command. A line of servants began parading in, depositing the tribesmen’s cargo on the car’s other side. “Is good, yes?”

  “We should have enough for the job, yessir,” Jake said, eyeing the heap, wondering if any of the pieces would actually fit a Rolls.

  Pierre heaved a silent sigh when one of the porters dumped a pair of batteries at their feet. Hareesh squinted up at him and demanded, “Assistant is fainting now?”

  “He’ll be fine, sir, just give him a couple of days.”

  “No have days. Day. One. Tomorrow sultan will ask how long to repair motor vehicles. You will tell, yes?”

  “We’ll do our best, sir.”

  “No best. You do. Sultan want Rolls Royce motor vehicles for to drive, not keep in stables.” Hareesh spun on his heel and departed, flinging over his shoulder, “Servant bring food. Sick man eat much, feel better, work hard.”

  When the livery was again empty, Jake ducked inside the driver’s cab, inspected the controls, and announced, “This car has been driven a grand total of three hundred and thirty-seven miles.”

  “My guess is that all it needs is an oil change, new tires, and a charged battery,” Pierre said, his head deep inside the cowling.

  “Can’t make this look too easy,” Jake warned.

  “Go see what kind of tools they have,” Pierre said, “and don’t try to teach a Marseille boy how to work a scam.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  At dusk the city sang its throbbing beat. The air cooled, the dust settled, the sun descended. During their meal Jake tried to urge Pierre into talking, but his friend would say no more than that he was not yet ready to find the words. Afterward Pierre curled himself into blankets on the backseat of one Rolls, and Jake set off alone to enjoy the dying day’s cooler hours.

  The guards by the inner keep’s portals eyed him with stony silence as he walked by, but did not attempt to stop him. Jake could feel their eyes remain on him up to the next corner. Beyond the turning, however, he was able to give himself to the sheer joy of exploration.

  The city’s narrow ways and cobblestone squares were a distillation of the entire desert nation. Members of virtually every tribe wandered its dusty courses. Porters streamed by under the watchful eyes of guards armed with great long rifles and viciously curved scimitars. Traders hawked everything from beads to camels. Painted ladies wore veils which fell away in indiscreet folds. A bearded giant, carrying a full-grown sheep across his shoulders, passed him. A native child drove a herd of goats down the lane, then paused to gaze up in astonishment at Jake’s blue eyes.

  Desert folk shielded themselves against the growing evening chill with hooded djellabah of soft goat’s wool. No man’s head was uncovered. Turbans of white or checkered cloth, peaked hats, knitted caps—all denoted tribe and region as clearly as did robes and speech.

  Women of the orthodox tribes were dressed in either all white or all black, their faces covered by embroidered shawls with rectangular slits for vision. No part of their bodies was permitted to be exposed, not even their hands, which were kept hidden within the flowing folds. Other women walked with no head covering at all save for sheer silk kerchiefs. Cascading gold bracelets on their ankles and wrists marked a cheerful tune with each step.

  Jake climbed the outer ramparts of the city walls just in time to see the sun’s final rays transform distant snow-capped peaks to bastions of molten gold. Guards standing duty along the wall glowered in his direction, but made no move. Clearly word had spread of the strangers who were there as guests of the sultan.

  A cannon boomed from somewhere down the ramparts. As the echo rumbled like thunder through the valley, Jake watched the city’s great outer doors draw shut. They rolled on ancient stone wheels, each pushed by six men, while another six heaved on a rope as thick as a man’s thigh. As the doors rumbled closed, the muezzin’s call rose from the mosque’s minaret.

  Jake looked out over a desert landscape gradually disappearing into a sea of blackness. Tiny orange fires shone from tribal campsites like mirrors of the stars appearing overhead. He watched the night gather strength, wished that Sally were there to share it all, and wondered at the strange new vistas opening up inside him.

  He had long since learned to live with the responsibility of leadership. Before, he had always known that the answers had come from him—from his experience, his intelligence, his ability to see a situation and know
the correct answer.

  Now was different. Now the answers were not his own. They were from beyond. He knew this, knew he was being used as a conduit. It was not a comforting knowledge.

  Jake found himself forced to accept his own weaknesses and lack of wisdom. And alongside this were the questions of who was using him, and how he could be sure he was hearing correctly.

  The answer was there waiting for him, carried upon a wind which gathered force as the evening’s chill took hold. Just as he stood strong and stable upon two legs, so his spiritual foundation needed to be based upon the dual pillars of prayer and daily study of the Scriptures.

  In a sudden sweep of understanding, Jake saw beyond his own dilemma to the opportunity. By accepting the challenge, he was also being invited to grow. By seeing to the needs of others as well as to his own needs he was given great opportunities to deepen, to have more in order to give more.

  A confirming grace of silence descended upon him, as powerful and far-reaching as the star-flecked heavens. Jake climbed back down from the ramparts, carrying the silence with him. This he understood as well. There would often be a need to rest in stillness, to listen without responding, to wait. To be sure that the answer was not his own. To give the questions over in prayer and study of the holy pages. To have the strength to remain quiet until the answer was given.

  He returned to the stables and found Pierre seated beside a battered gas cooker, his eyes dark and downcast. Pierre raised his cup. “They brought the makings for tea. Apparently it is our only heat. Would you like a cup?”

  “Sure.” Jake squatted down beside the stove. “Beautiful night.”

  Pierre poured the steaming brew into a mug, added sugar from a small leather sack, and handed it over without meeting Jake’s eyes. “You have been a good friend.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You have done more than others with a world of words.” Pierre raised his gaze. “You have given me the space to think.”

  Jake sipped the steamy liquid. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Pierre’s gaze dropped back to the flickering flame. “I feel . . . hollow.”

  The silence was captivating. Jake found himself hearing it almost as clearly as the words of his friend.

  Pierre drew the blanket closer about his shoulders. “There have been moments. I am not sure if I can describe them.”

  “Try,” Jake urged quietly.

  “I have spent much time talking to what I am not sure is even there. That is how desperate I have become.” Pierre hesitated, and lowered his head farther until his features were lost to shadows. “I am ashamed to tell you.”

  “No need,” Jake said, his voice soft, trying hard to be there without disturbing the peace, the strength of silence.

  “There have been moments when the unspoken words of my mind and heart have become alive.” Pierre stopped, as though expecting Jake to laugh. When there was no sound, he went on. “I have felt almost as though there was something unseen there, not just listening, but guiding me as well.”

  Jake took another sip, his eyes steady upon his friend.

  “Moments have passed when I am lost to all but the feeling of not being alone. Then the moment goes, and I am left with a greater torrent of doubts and worries than ever before.”

  Pierre heaved a sigh. “More and more the only peace I can find is in searching my heart’s empty spaces with these unspoken words, begging for what I cannot even name to return with this gift of peace. Yet I do not hear the answer I seek. I do not hear what I should do about Jasmyn. Still, this moment of peace is the only answer that makes sense to my fevered mind.”

  Jake unbuttoned his shirt pocket and drew out his New Testament. “Here.”

  Pierre raised his head, hesitated, then accepted the book.

  “We’ll have to share it,” Jake said. “It’s the only one I have.”

  “You think I should read this?”

  “It’s time,” he replied. “Begin with Matthew, the first book. If you like, we can talk about what you read.”

  Pierre fumbled, opened the cover, lowered the volume until its pages were illuminated by the flame. Jake watched him for a moment, his heart filled to bursting. He reached over, set his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and offered up a brief prayer of his own. Then he stood and walked to the neighboring stall.

  Jake awoke to the sound of a cannon’s thundering boom. As he swung his feet down from the rich leather seat, a muezzin’s cry rose in the chill dawn air. He flung on his clothes, washed in the outdoor trough, checked and saw that Pierre was still asleep, and decided to take his breakfast in the city’s market.

  He walked through gradually awakening streets, savoring the sights and sounds and smells. Old men greeted the new day seated along sun-dappled walls, hoarding the meager warmth of old bones by wrapping themselves in goat’s-hair blankets and sipping loudly from steaming vases of tea.

  Jake stood at a tea stall, eating cold unleavened bread and sweet honeyed dates spiced by the flavor of a new world. He was so wrapped up in the moment that when the voice spoke he very nearly cleared both feet from the ground.

  “Jake,” the voice behind him said.

  He spun so fast he spilled the hot liquid over his fingers, shouted his pain, and dropped the vaselike glass. The stall holder cried his outrage when the glass shattered. Immediately Jasmyn spoke soothing words and reached in her belt-purse for coppers. The man subsided under her voice and her beauty, relenting so far as to offer Jake yet another glass.

  Gingerly he accepted the tea and demanded of her, “How did you get here?”

  “My mother’s tribe is from east of these hills,” she replied, her proud stature and her quietly spoken English garnering stares from all who passed. “When I was twelve we returned, my mother and I. She was not able to have other children, and she wanted her heritage to live in me. I spent half a year traveling the dry reaches, as long as my mother would remain apart from my father, who was too wedded to the sea ever to travel inland. So it was not hard for me to arrange transport with a hill tribe related to my own.”

  Jasmyn wore sweeping robes of black, lined with royal blue and a long head scarf of the same rich azure. She accepted her own cup of tea, sipped cautiously, and asked, “How is he?”

  “Better,” Jake said. “I really think he is better.”

  Great jade eyes opened to reveal depths of such painful yearning that they twisted his heart. Her voice trembled as much as the hand that held her tea. “Do you think there is a chance for us?”

  “I hope so,” he said with a fervor that surprised even himself. “But I don’t know.”

  Jasmyn was silent for a time, and when she spoke again her control had returned. “You are in danger, but how much I cannot say.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Marrakesh jeweler, Herr Reich, was approached by the minions of Ibn Rashid after your departure. Herr Reich found them very willing to accept that he had made a mistake, and that the man with whom he had spoken was not Patrique. Too willing. So he made inquiries. Herr Reich is a well-connected man. It did not take him long to hear that Ibn Rashid had already received word that Patrique was being held for ransom by Sultan Musad al Rasuli.”

  Jake almost spilled his tea a second time. “He’s here?”

  “Somewhere,” Jasmyn replied quietly, her eyes discreetly focused on the ground at her feet. “I have a relative in the sultan’s service. I have sent word that I must speak with him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jake muttered. “The sultan’s assistant was the one who saw us into the city.”

  “He saw Pierre?”

  “He was as close to him as I am to you.” Worriedly Jake shook his head. “He’s bound to know who’s in the prison.”

  “This I do not understand. But still I believe the information to be true. According to Herr Reich’s sources, Ibn Rashid has been arguing for over a month about the bounty demanded by the sultan. He would not do this unless he ha
d solid evidence that Patrique was here. And alive.”

  She thought a moment. “Pierre must stay hidden as much as he possibly can. There is too much risk of him being recognized.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult. The official already thinks he’s sick.”

  Concern swept over her features. “Pierre is ill?”

  “Only for you,” Jake said quietly. “He feels torn in two.”

  “But you said he was better.”

  “I hope he is.”

  “Tell him,” she hesitated, and her eyes opened once more to reveal those endless green depths. “Tell him that my heart is his. My heart, my love, my reason for living.”

  Jake nodded. “How will I find you?”

  “Come here again at midafternoon.” Slender fingers rose to adjust the folds of her scarf. She then turned and vanished into the swirling throngs.

  Jake stood for a long moment, sipping lukewarm tea and marveling at the strength contained in that fragile-seeming woman.

  “She said that?”

  “Those exact words,” Jake confirmed. “She loves you with all her heart. All you have to do is look into her face to see that’s the truth.”

  “And Patrique may be here. So much to think on.” Pierre dropped his head into his hands. “I wish I knew—”

  “Ah, gentlemens, excellent.” Hareesh Yohari appeared in the stable doorway. He stared disdainfully down at Pierre. “Assistant is still with illness?”

  “The altitude,” Jake said, drawing himself erect. “But he’s still working hard, sir.”

  The little official sniffed. “You come to sultan alone. Better for assistant to stay and work. Now. You have answers to question?”

  “Hope so, sir.”

  “Yes, hope, for you and assistant, I so hope.” He motioned. “You come.”

  Great bronze doors five times the height of a man opened into the inner residence. Geometric mosaics tiled the walls and floors. The air was rich with the fragrance of scented water spouting from a dozen fountains. Hundreds of birds sang from gilded cages. Flowers and palms grew in rich abundance. Servants scuttled in silence along the arched colonnades.