The Torch of Tangier Page 10

  “A Barbary ape.” Lily pointed. “There, behind the taxi.” She turned to Russ. “They’re not apes, you know. Tailless monkeys, the only ones in Europe. Besides humans, of course.”

  “You’ll see more on Ape’s Rock in the center of the peninsula,” Russ said. “We say that Gibraltar will remain British as long as Barbary apes live on the Rock.”

  A member of the crew bounded onto the dock to secure the ferry. Lily and Russ moved along the gangplank while bundles of netted cargo swung above their heads. Involuntarily, Lily ducked.

  Murky water, dotted with orange peels, slapped against the keel and the gangplank swayed.

  Russ watched her from the dock. “Don’t have on your sea legs today?” He held out a hand. “Jump.”

  Lily balled her fists, her arms stiff against her sides, and hurtled onto the dock.

  They took a taxi into town along narrow streets through a jumble of houses scattered against the lower slopes, passing carts on squeaky wheels that competed for space in the cramped lanes.

  The sleepy little town contrasted with the lazy bustle of Tangier. Neat gardens surrounded cottages; doors trimmed with polished brass caught the glare of late morning; shutters garnished the sun-drenched brightness of walls. Ahead of them, a man carried a basket of bread on his shoulder, trudging uphill.

  And over it all, the Rock.

  The taxi stopped at Casemate Square at the entrance to Main Street. Russ gestured toward a company of Scottish guards in green and yellow tartans lined up in formation before Government House.

  “Gordon Highlanders,” he said. “We’re safe here on the Rock. Don’t let the kilts fool you. They’re brave and bloodthirsty. We call them the Ladies from Hell.”

  They hiked up through the narrow streets of the town, climbing higher and higher, following a path along the hill.

  “This the way to Gorham’s Cave?” Lily asked.

  “That was just window dressing. We’re going to the Northern Tunnels.”

  “To meet Drury?”

  “No. He’s at HQ this morning, in Dockyard tunnel.”

  “Where?”

  “HQ. Eisenhower is managing the whole operation from headquarters set up in the tunnels at the far western end of Gib. Drury has to be back in Tangier this afternoon. Came in on the early ferry. We have other work to do.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.” Russ continued up the hill. “You coming?”

  Lily puffed up the incline after him, still curious and a little resentful about the lack of explanation. She paused when she spotted a monkey sitting on a high rock, nursing a baby folded in the crook of her arm. The infant waved its legs in the air and clutched at its mother’s fur.

  Russ maneuvered along a path marked with cart tracks and along the hill to an arched cleft cut into the rock. She turned away from the Barbary apes and trudged after him.

  A Highlander at the opening in the rock watched their approach. He moved aside, shifting the bayonet smartly to his left shoulder, and saluted.

  “You’ll come with us, Peters,” Russ said.

  “I’ve been waiting, sir.”

  They entered a passageway eight feet high and just as wide hewn into the rock. The Highlander followed. The deafening bray of a donkey reverberated through the gallery.

  Russ pulled a flashlight from his pocket. “We dug out the Northern Tunnels during the Great Siege. It was the only way we could transport the guns to set up a battery on the steep northern face of the Rock.”

  “The Great Siege?”

  “In the eighteenth century. While you Yanks were fighting us in your Revolution, the Spanish and French took advantage of our distraction and surrounded the Rock. Eventually, we prevailed.” Lily followed the eerie echo of his voice. “In spite of scurvy, starvation, constant bombardment.”

  The beam from Russ’ lantern bounced off the walls. A fusty animal odor permeated the clammy air.

  “There’s a lesson there,” he said. “Hitler should take it to heart.”

  They picked their way over the slippery limestone floor, past side rooms and stone staircases into a connecting passageway.

  A hobbled donkey wearing a burlap sack tied under the tail to catch its droppings was hitched to a cart that blocked the narrow passage. Behind it, light moved back and forth through an aperture cut into the rock. A sign over the opening read “Hanover Gallery 1789”.

  A resounding voice rumbled out, “In here.”

  They squeezed around the donkey cart into a small chamber hacked out of the rock. Wooden boxes were stacked against the walls of the gallery, some the size of fruit crates, some as large as coffins. One had been pried open.

  Adam was wearing a headlamp and jamming Enfield rifles and straw into a gunnysack stamped with a Union Jack and the legend OFFICIAL BUSINESS.

  He bent over it, his head tilted at an awkward angle, his khaki shirt smudged, his face streaked with dust and sweat.

  “Welcome to my lair,” Adam said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adam handed Lily a rifle. Her arm strained at its unexpected weight.

  Startled, she almost dropped it. “What’s this for?”

  “We’re filling those sacks.” He pointed with his chin to a stack of bags against the far wall. “They go to Tangier in the diplomatic pouch on the afternoon ferry.” He stuffed another gun into the canvas bag.

  Lily eyed the clutch of filled sacks arrayed near the entrance to the chamber. “That’s all we do?” She leaned the rifle against the wall and reached for a bag.

  “Nothing too difficult,” Adam said. “You and I fill. Russ, here, seals. Sergeant Peters, outside, loads them onto a cart to transfer to a lorry.”

  She held open the sack with her right hand. Adam watched as she picked up the rifle and tried to jam it into the bag. The gun slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor.

  “Never mind,” Adam said. He exchanged her rifle for a crowbar. “Start on the ammo instead. Over there by the far wall.”

  Russ had already started working. Squatting on the ground, he tied the opening of a bag crammed with guns, melted a bit of red wax onto a flap folded over the twine, and stamped it with a bulky seal.

  Lily pried open the case.

  “Those are 30-06’s for the Einfields,” Adam told her. “Take them out of the ammo case. They come sealed twenty to a box.”

  “Why are we doing this?” Lily asked him.

  “Drury didn’t brief you?”

  She shook her head.

  “These go in the British diplomatic pouch to Tangier. From Tangier, you’ll get them to Tariq. He’ll deliver them to the Merkaj to distribute to the Berber. They’re our backup in case the landings in Casa go sour and Spanish step in or the Vichy French put up too much resistance.”

  “As regular troops?”

  “Guerillas.”

  “How do I get them to Tariq?”

  “Tomorrow,” Adam said and shoved a rifle into the open sack.

  They worked in silence, the smell of metal and oil and gelignite permeating the stagnant air of the cavern. Lily and Adam stuffed bags and Russ sealed them. Peters hoisted the sacks onto his shoulders. Red-faced and grunting with effort, he carried them out of the chamber.

  After a while, Lily developed a rhythm. She moved a pile of sacks to the case, held the open bag in her left hand and reached in to grab a box of ammo with her right. One after the other, in endless movement.

  They stopped for egg sandwiches at two, sitting on the ground in the clammy chamber, leaning their backs against the wall. After a fifteen-minute break, Peters rummaged in the food hamper for an apple. “For the donkey,” he said and disappeared into the tunnel.

  By mid-afternoon, Lily’s shoulders ached. She rested, squatting on her heels. The others looked as tired as she felt, but kept working steadily, filling sacks, sealing them, carrying them out.

  She picked up the crowbar and opened
another crate.

  When they finally finished, Lily, Adam, and Russ started back down the tunnel while Peters stayed behind to load the remaining sacks onto the cart.

  The fetid air in the tunnel stuck in Lily’s throat. Sweat rolled down the small of her back. She couldn’t remember being this tired since she was an undergraduate working the rocker screen at a Folsom site in Idaho.

  A rumble of cartwheels on the stone floor of the tunnel and the clip-clop of the mule sounded behind them.

  “Coming through,” Peters called.

  They flattened themselves against the wall until the cart passed and resumed walking single file through the tunnel, Russ taking the lead, with Lily right behind him.

  “When you get back on the ferry, you’ll see Sergeant Peters drive a lorry onto the dock.” Russ’ voice carried back to her with an echo. “He’ll leave it there to be loaded onto the ferry. Don’t show any sign you know him.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Watch from the deck. See that it’s loaded without incident. Don’t go near the lorry, not the ramp, not the hold. But keep your eyes open for anything unusual.”

  “Such as?”

  “Any incident. Someone taking special notice, nervous, paying too much attention. Report it back to us.”

  “You won’t be coming back on the ferry?”

  He shook his head no. “Someone from the British Legation will be on the dock at Tangier. Engage him in casual conversation if you see anything suspicious.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “You know the British,” Adam said. “Probably bowler hat, furled umbrella.”

  Russ turned around, harrumphed at Adam, then continued down the tunnel. “Red hair, horned rim glasses, red moustache, about five foot ten, weighs about eleven stone six.”

  “What?”

  “About one hundred sixty pounds,” Adam said from behind. “A stone is the equivalent of fourteen pounds.”

  Russ turned around again. “Sorry. Forgot you don’t speak English in the colonies.”

  “And if there’s an emergency?” Lily asked.

  “You’re on your own.”

  Lily glanced back at Adam for reassurance.

  “Probably won’t be one,” Adam said. “If there is, the hell with the guns. Take care of your own safety.” He looked weary. “You’ll be all right.” He drew a handkerchief across his face and wiped his hands. “Tomorrow morning you’re expected at the villa at 9:30.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “No. MacAlistair will fill you in.”

  They parted at the entrance to the tunnel. A sharp intake of breath filled Lily’s lungs with the cool afternoon air. She found her way back to the ferry along the path that led downhill into the town, cradling her arms across her chest against the breeze. She stumbled, unsure of her direction, looking for landmarks, then continued downhill, through the town, past the houses, to the dock.

  ***

  On the ferry, cold gusts swirled around Lily, blowing her hair against her face. She watched the dock from the rail, hunching her shoulders and clutching her arms against the chill wind. Crates dangled from a crane and swung back and forth like pendulums as they were lowered toward a ramp that led to the hold.

  Peters appeared in a white van that pulled up short of the ramp. He handed the captain some papers attached to a clipboard. The captain signed while gusts whipped at Peters’ kilt. Lily smiled, remembering his answer to the old question, “What do you wear under—?”

  “My knees,” he had answered before she finished the question.

  Two Moroccan women, heads covered by scarves, lumbered up the gangplank. A pretty girl teetering on platform shoes with ankle straps slithered behind them in a tight skirt, her black hair piled high on top of her head. One of the women struggled with her cloth bundle to retie it while the girl stood at the cabin door, tapping her foot and motioning the woman inside.

  Struggling against the wind, the captain removed some papers and returned the clipboard to Peters. Peters started toward town, the board tucked under his right arm.

  Lily held her breath as the crane lifted the van. It lurched precariously in the wind, hovered over the dock, nose down, and wavered over the ferry. Three deck hands scrambled out of the hold, loosened the chains that held the van, lowered it and guided it along the ramp into the cargo door.

  Chilled, she rubbed her arms and moved inside. The salon was almost empty. A swarthy man in a dark suit read a Spanish language newspaper, half a page folded back in a commuter’s pleat. From time to time he glanced over the top of the paper at the girl, who paraded around the salon, heels clicking on the wooden floor. The two women sat close together, bundles clutched on their laps.

  The ferry vibrated to a start, engines rumbling in the bowels of the hold. By the time it pulled away from the dock, the girl was at the coffee bar and flirting with the steward in a low voice, her elbow leaning on the bar and a coquettish tilt to her head. Beyond the shelter of the harbor moles, the boat began to roll and heave in the wind-swept water, wider and wider. Lily watched the Rock recede through the spray-specked windows of the salon.

  The boat swayed with the thrashing currents where a furious ocean funneled through the Straits, and she heard noises coming from below the deck, first a creaking, then a rolling sound. The ferry pitched in earnest now, as though it were being tossed in an angry fist. The clatter from the hold grew louder, metal scudding across metal, reverberating with the sway of the boat.

  Lily left the musty cabin for the deck. The door swung back and forth and snapped against the jamb with a hollow click. One of the Moroccan women ran past her from the salon, leaned over the rail and retched.

  Lily moved away. She craned her neck to scan the upper deck. The captain emerged from the wheelhouse, took off his cap, wiped his forehead and studied the gathering clouds. He jammed the cap back on his forehead and stood with his legs apart and his hands behind his back, riding the swells, a pair of wire spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

  Lily climbed the narrow stairs, clutching the banister to maintain a precarious balance. She swayed and held on while the wind whipped against her skirt. The ferry heaved against a swell. She smashed against the metal of the stair.

  Her stocking caught on the rough surface of the wall and snagged. Damn. Her last unmended pair.

  When she reached the upper deck, she smoothed her skirt, held it down against the wind, and grasped the rail with the other.

  As casually as she could, she nodded at the captain and gave him a tentative smile. “Rough sea.”

  “A Levanter,” he said. “Wind out of the east. Nothing to worry about.”

  Lily glanced below. The Moroccan woman still leaned over the rail. “Not many passengers.”

  “It’s the war,” the captain said, “the time of year. In summer, a few people cross over from Gib to Morocco for the beaches. But mostly, Spaniards go out of Algeciras to Cuesta.”

  “It hardly pays for you to make the trip.”

  “We have cargo.”

  “Is that what’s making the noise down below?”

  The captain removed his water-spotted spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Not much cargo today. Just some mail, office equipment, the diplomatic pouch.”

  “Anything ever damaged in the swells?” Lily asked. “It sounds like things are crashing around down there.”

  He replaced his glasses, rolling one earpiece in place at a time. “Loose chains. We use them to hold cargo in place. The empty ones roll about a bit.”

  He sniffed the air. “Weather’s changing.” He pointed overhead to a bevy of storks swooping over the Straits. “They’re carried by the wind. Winter over in Africa.”

  He adjusted his jacket and, with a curt nod to Lily, strolled back to the wheelhouse.

  When Lily returned to the lower deck, the Moroccan woman had already let go of the rail and tottered back to the salon. The women
and the girl sat pale and hollow-eyed, clutching the edges of their seats. Lily felt queasy herself. The man was asleep, his head tilted against the top of his chest. Soft sounds, halfway between a snore and a gasp rasped from his open mouth.

  ***

  Lily lingered on the deck in Tangier while the cargo was unloaded. The women disembarked, waddled along the quay, and disappeared through the gate of the medina. The man with the newspaper loitered on the pier. He scrutinized each passerby, watching whoever came out of the medina. He seemed to be interested in the cargo.

  A proper Englishman appeared—a three-piece suit, red hair, horned rim glasses, red moustache. And he carried a furled umbrella.

  Lily started down the ramp as she watched the man with the newspaper continue to scan the pier. What will I say to the Englishman? Nice day, I’ll say. Look out for the man with the newspaper, I’ll say, he’s loitering.

  The man with the newspaper turned to stare at the Englishman and then looked past him to a bearded man carrying a briefcase and wearing a dark brown djelaba. The man with the newspaper waved, greeted the bearded man with a peck on each cheek, and they vanished into the medina arm in arm.

  The Englishman signed the clipboard the captain handed him. Just before he got into the van and drove off, Lily spotted Korian on the pier near the newspaper kiosk. What’s he doing here?

  Korian picked up a paper, dug into his pocket, and dropped some coins on the counter. Lily started down the gangplank. Korian hesitated a moment, silhouetted by the setting sun. A man in a dark blue suit appeared next to him. As Korian reached out to shake the man’s hand, she saw something pass between them.

  Before the man moved on, he slid a small package into Korian’s pocket.

  Korian stayed at the kiosk for a few moments, scanning the headlines, turning the paper to read the bottom half of the page, and then strode off.

  What had they exchanged?

  Lily hurried to follow Korian through the clattering industry of the dock, squinting after him in the glare of sunset, plunging into the hazy twilight and busy noise of the medina.

  She lost sight of him somewhere around the Rue d’Angleterre where he seemed to disappear.