THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  Ramirez maintained the straight face of a policeman. He brushed the sergeant away with a disinterested flick of his hand. ‘It seems, madame,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that you have friends of importance.’ He gave a deferential nod in the direction of the younger man. ‘This gentleman is Don Carlos. He has come to vouch for you so that you can return to your house.’

  Evangeline felt a small sense of relief at this unexpected reprieve. She had no idea who this man was but she was happy to accept the help being offered. She nodded awkwardly at him, and in a voice not much above a whisper thanked him. Again he bowed graciously. ‘It is my pleasure, madame – or is it mademoiselle? Forgive me but I see you have no marriage ring on your finger.’

  He had addressed her in French, which brought a further relief: her command of Spanish was adequate but it was limited. ‘Mademoiselle, señor.’

  ‘So, mademoiselle,’ Ramirez butted in, ‘for the moment I am releasing you. You may return to your house but until my investigation is finished you are forbidden to leave the town. It may be necessary to bring you here again for questioning. Is that clear?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good – and there is the matter of your papers which must be dealt with. It would be better for you if you rectified this. Don Carlos has offered his services to assist you.’ He saluted Carlos, then without further acknowledgement to Evangeline turned his back on her and walked away.

  She hung there for a moment not sure of what to do; not sure if she should just walk out. The man with the dark hair and pleasant smile ended her uncertainty. ‘Allow me to introduce myself properly mademoiselle. I am Carlos Luis Alejandro de Lorca. My father is Don Ferdinand de Lorca. You may have heard of him? Our family owns much of the land in this area. There has been a de Lorca here since the fifteenth century. My ancestors fought in the Moorish wars and our estates were gifted by a grateful King Ferdinand and his queen, Isabella.’

  Evangeline gave a nervous laugh, more out of relief than because she found what he had said humorous. ‘It is a very long name you have, monsieur.’

  ‘Yes,’ he grinned, ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘What should I do now, monsieur?’

  Don Carlos held out both hands and tilted his head slightly to one side, and all the time there was that gently pleasant smile with which he had first greeted her. ‘Why, go to your home, of course.’

  She looked embarrassed and inside felt just a little silly. ‘Oh yes, of course. Well, thank you again for your help.’ She made ready to leave but paused. ‘I am sorry, but I should have asked why you have helped me in this way. I am most grateful but – well I am not sure why.’

  His mouth curled to a light smile and for a moment he hesitated, as if not certain what his answer should be. ‘Allow me to call upon you tomorrow, if that is convenient. I will try to explain then – and if you will accept my help I shall be happy to assist in obtaining the correct papers of permission for you to stay here in Cadaqués. Now I think you should go to your home.’ He called roughly to the sergeant who was loitering near the front door. ‘He will see you safely to your house. I wish you a more pleasant evening than your day has been, mademoiselle.’

  Chapter 5

  Tangier interlude

  The ferry took just under the hour. The sea was flat calm, the sky above was a peerless blue and the day was warm. Grainger sat in a wicker deck chair, Braiden’s panama tilted down across his face, shading his eyes from the sun. In a passing moment of humour he thought he might cable Charlie Armitage and tell him this was the 100 guinea cruise, not the ill-smelling Ludlow and the grey waters off Biscay. He settled in to read a copy of the London Evening Standard, an airmail edition that someone in the purser’s office had kindly given him.

  A little way along the deck, a tall man with pale coloured hair, wearing a straw boater, linen jacket and baggy slacks, leaned on the rail and looked idly out at the sea. He had boarded the ferry at the last moment and immediately made his way up onto the sun deck. There was a casual air about the man that spoke of a familiarity with his surroundings. As such, he did not look out of place. There were still plenty of businessmen plying their trades between Spanish Morocco and the mainland.

  As the passengers disembarked, they came ashore amid the clatter of hooves and iron-shod wheels on stone. The air was sweet with the ripe smell of putrefying rubbish: rotting oranges, mingling with the odour of horses; a pungent assault on his bland northern senses.

  ‘Barouche, monsieur. Where you go – I take you.’ A ragged urchin pointed to a horse-drawn caliche, at the same time tugging on Grainger’s sleeve. Grainger pulled his arm away and flicked a five sous coin at the child. He was about to walk away when it occurred to him that it was a mistake and that he should be acting more like a tourist.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he shouted at the boy who was now leading him towards the line of carriages. Grainger went to the first at the head of the queue but the boy waved his hands dismissing it. ‘This one no good bastard,’ he shouted above the din of the street. ‘Come on, come on, I show you good clean barouche, monsieur; nice horses, best driver – very fair price.’

  He stopped at the third carriage in the line. ‘Here,’ he proclaimed. ‘Top driver. Where you go, Kasbah? I will be your guide, monsieur. I am Jamil, very good guide. Not too much money. Very cheap, very good.’

  The driver of the caleche, who had been dozing in the afternoon sunlight, roused and held out a hand, inviting Grainger to install himself. He ran his eyes languidly across him. ‘You are English I think.’

  Grainger climbed onto the step, bag in hand. ‘No, Canadian actually.’

  The driver again cast his dark eyes across Grainger and a smile spread over his sun-creased face; a face that looked like it might have been made from parchment.

  ‘You dress like an Englishman – but you people all look the same. Where can I take you?’

  ‘To the Kasbah!’ The urchin shouted and made ready to climb into the caleche, intent on not letting his prize get away. The driver was having none of it. He leaned over and prodded the boy with his horse whip, pushing him off the step. Then he shouted something in Darija Arabic. It was enough and the boy stepped down sullenly. Grainger threw him another five sous, sending the coin spinning above his head. ‘Maybe next time.’

  The boy snatched the coin from the air, grinned, saluted and scurried off to look for another prospect.

  ‘Take me to the Cecil Hotel,’ Grainger called to the driver, and settled back into the plush buttoned seat.

  ‘Are you here on business?’ the driver asked in a voice that sounded lazy and disinterested; why should he care anyway. It was a fare and there were not so many of those any more.

  ‘I’ve come to see the city,’ Grainger said airily.

  ‘Ah,’ the man replied, ‘a tourist. We do not see so many in these times,’ then added sullenly, ‘this war has ruined my business.’

  The hotel was not much over a kilometre from the port but the driver of the caleche took a leisurely pace, pointing out the places of interest along the way.

  The Cecil had been built in the 1880s. It was a three-storey stone-fronted building in the style of an English club, and looked for all the world like it might have been located in Carlton Place or Pall Mall. However, the road on which it sat was far removed from London. It was poorly made, just tar-sprayed shingle rolled hard. It was wide enough for two vehicles to pass but the low cliff it bordered was ragged and unfenced. A wrong move after nightfall might easily end in a fifty-foot plunge to the Mediterranean below. Nothing had been done to repair it for years, and it was not on any agenda in Madrid. When they arrived he made a point of overpaying the driver, hoping it would go another step to reinforcing his image as a naïve foreign traveller.

  The hotel lobby was a room of generous dimensions. A cool marble floor led to a mahogany and cedar reception desk, inlaid with geometric bone marquetry. The high walls were draped with native tapestries and pierced gilt lamp brackets, and the ceili
ngs hung with large, slow-turning fans. It felt like he had walked into an exclusive Indian hill station club, in Shimla or some such place in the Raj. He knew it had once had a good reputation, though it was clear the place was beginning to take on a faded air.

  The concierge looked at his meagre luggage with suspicion, as if he thought here was someone who might disappear in the middle of the night – leave without settling his bill.

  ‘The rest of my kit is to follow,’ Grainger assured him, sensing the air of disapproval. The concierge gave a polite bow of his head but continued to look unconvinced.

  The room he had taken was one of the cheaper ones, on the third floor. It was, however, unexpectedly spacious and well appointed, with silk drapes at the windows and a view out across the sea. It had its own toilet cubicle with a hand basin, though the bathroom was at the far end of the landing. There was a mahogany writing desk with a comfortable chair, two armchairs set around a low octagonal table and, on a marble ledge beside the bed, a telephone handset.

  He put his small bag onto the luggage stand, opened it and took out a fresh shirt. For a moment it felt as if he really was a tourist on holiday.

  He avoided the lift and walked down two flights of the sweeping spiral staircase, emerging into a now busy reception hall. More guests were arriving, all Spanish. Well-heeled guests, attended by porters and baggage carriers, laden down with steamer trunks, suitcases and hat boxes. It was the way of the rich that they never travelled light, even in war time. He stood and watched the entourage, realising in that moment why he must have looked out of place to the concierge.

  Outside in the street he walked in the direction of the old city. It was late afternoon, the air was warm, people were strolling. All along the kerb in front of the hotel there were caleches, the horses standing patiently while their owners called out to the passers-by.

  He walked until he was opposite the port, then turned left heading into the Medina. The broad avenue that he had been on came to an abrupt end in front of an arched stone gate that marked the entrance to the Medina, and what had once been the heart of the old city. Inside, the streets were narrow, so narrow that everything was in shadow. Buildings of soft ochre stone jostled with mud-brick houses. Wooden shop fronts laid out with trestles and pallets piled with merchandise fought for space with carts and barrows, livestock and human traffic. Under the shade of canvas awnings, shopkeepers lolled in broken down chairs, some smoking, some drinking coffee, others just dozing. At the sight of Grainger a rippling chorus of ‘Hey monsieur, what you want, come on, look see,’ ran ahead of him down the alley. When the calling in French had no effect they changed and instead called out ‘Hey, English, what you need? You want girl, I have girl, very nice.’

  He stopped at a stall and went through the pretence of examining a cheap djellaba and a fez hat, stuff made for the now virtually defunct souvenir market. He loitered for a moment surreptitiously glancing around, all the time mindful that he might have been followed.

  The alley led him into a small square with a fountain at its centre. Opposite him on the far side he saw what he had come for, a small café, El Parisienne. He casually crossed the square, lingering for a moment by the fountain as if it had caught his interest.

  He took a seat at one of the tables set out at the front of the café and waited on his rendezvous. A waiter served him with a strong black coffee and offered him a newspaper, which he politely accepted; it was in French and Arabic. He read the lead article in French then looked at his watch. His contact was late. He waited another five minutes. The afternoon was wearing on. He did not want to be wandering through the alleys after dark if he could avoid it. There would be the risk of thieves and possibly worse.

  When his wait reached the half hour, he put a one franc coin on the table, got up and left. Something must have gone wrong; it would, he knew, be stupid to hang around. He retreated to the far side of the square where, just inside the lee of the alley, he waited and watched the front of the café for a little longer. People came and went but none of them looked like they might be his contact.

  Convinced the rendezvous had failed, he turned to go back to the hotel. He would have to let Baker Street know.

  As he prepared to leave a man stepped out of a nearby doorway. He was of medium height with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Grainger stopped dead. ‘Bloody hell, Tommy Jordan. I haven’t seen you since – Chicago, wasn’t it. What the hell are you doing here?’

  Jordan’s face lit up with a broad grin. ‘Same as you, pal, taking in the sights.’

  Grainger went to shake hands but Jordan turned away. ‘Just follow,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth and headed off along the alley. They twisted and turned through a maze of side streets, eventually emerging into another square, this time broader and more open than the one they had just left. There were shops instead of stalls and the cafés flanking its edges were more affluent. Jordan stopped at a large open-fronted restaurant. ‘This’ll do.’ He sat down at one of the tables set out on the pavement and motioned to Grainger to join him. He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, then offered the pack to Grainger. ‘Dicky, isn’t it – you want?’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t.’

  Jordan looked at the pack and screwed up his nose. ‘Can’t say as I blame you. Moroccan – bitter as hell.’

  Grainger stretched out his legs and lolled back on his chair. ‘Oh, and I go by the name of Richard these days.’

  Jordan gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Whatever you like, it’s your call. Where’re you staying?’

  ‘The Cecil, do you know it?’

  Jordan shook his head. ‘Nope, only been here three days. You wanna beer or tea?’

  ‘Beer sounds better.’ They ordered two beers and waited till the waiter had gone.

  Grainger leaned forward across the table. ‘So what do you know?’

  ‘Probably no more than you. Emile Xicluna, anti-French dissident, broke out of the jail where Vichy were holding him in Algiers; managed to get across the border and to Tangier.’

  ‘That I knew.’

  ‘Apparently thought he might get asylum from Franco’s mob; God alone knows why he thought they’d welcome him. Anyway, turns out they didn’t like him any better than the French. They handed him over to Vichy but he escaped again, this time from a prison van when he was being transferred. Seems he turned up in Fez, but there’s also word that he’d been seen in Casablanca.’

  ‘That I didn’t know.’

  ‘Then, out of the blue, he’s scooped up by some group who we think were put up to it by Berlin.’

  ‘Hold up, why would Berlin be interested in an obscure Algerian dissident?’

  ‘Well, it turns out that Xicluna is not 100% Algerian. He has a Polish mother – and, guess what, not only is she a Jew, which makes Emile Jewish, but he turns out to have connections.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Have you heard of Agency Africa?’

  Grainger nodded. ‘Polish-run intelligence outfit, isn’t it? Operating out of Algeria was what I heard, though I’ve no idea what they’re up to.’

  Jordan paused for a moment, sat back and took a sip of his beer. He looked around him then leant closer to Grainger. ‘You’ve heard of Operation Torch?’

  Again Grainger nodded. ‘Heard of but don’t know much about it other than there’s a showdown coming.’

  ‘Correct. Right now Agency Africa is our ear to the ground. They’ve been gathering up intelligence data for Torch; putting together local support on the ground.’

  ‘Ah,’ Grainger raised his eyebrows, ‘and Xicluna is one of them.’

  ‘You’re on the button. If the Germans get hold of him it could kill Torch. He’s that important.’

  ‘But if they’ve got him already …’

  Jordan held up a hand. ‘They don’t. Not yet anyway. Whoever the outfit is that has him is holding out for a deal. They’re putting him up for a ransom. They’ve offered him to the Krauts for a price and threatened to set
up an auction.’

  ‘Have they approached you guys?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We told them to take a powder.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  Jordan again looked around him as if suspecting he might be overheard. He took another sip of his beer. ‘The minute we say we’re interested, we signal to the Krauts that this guy has something. If Xicluna sings, the Agency Africa network is compromised – and Torch is dead in the water. Savvy?’

  ‘That would be a bugger.’

  ‘Exactly. Now I seem to recall from our last encounter Stateside that you are a bit of a Harry Houdini when it comes to springing people – so it’s over to you my friend. It’s your call.’

  Grainger rubbed the afternoon stubble on his chin. He thought for a moment. ‘Where are you in all this?’

  Jordan smiled. ‘I’m still working for Patton.’

  ‘Is he heading up Torch?’

  ‘No, that’s General Clarke. But Patton’ll be coming ashore in the first wave. Gung ho like always.’

  ‘I need to sleep on it. Do we have much time?’

  ‘Some, not a lot. We can tease these guys along for a bit, but eventually they’ll blow us out. Come on,’ Jordan stood up, ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your hotel.

  ‘You have transport?’

  ‘You see that jalopy over there.’ He flicked a finger in the direction of an elderly upright car drawn to the kerb on the far side of the street. ‘I scrounged it from our embassy: 1924 Packard. Came off the Ark with Noah but I guess it’ll do.’