The attic was a large room filled with dusty furniture and sheet-garbed objects – a marble hand poked out from underneath one covering, pointing to the ceiling in permanent query of the heavens above. Huge picture windows let in the light and heat in equal amounts. Rattan ceiling fans had been installed to help cope with the warmth in a vaguely ‘Raffles’ feel, but they had not been switched on and the air was heavy and stiflingly hot.
JD wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and looked around. Ezra was twisting and turning his way through the room aiming his gun at first one shrouded figure and then another; Buck followed close behind, his concentration on the furniture and old trunks. Abdullah and his relatives spread out and vanished into the far reaches of the room, their presence still evident only by the soft shuffling of their feet and the occasional bump against the assorted collection of junk. A faint squeak sounded and JD spun around, finger pressing on the trigger of his gun only to see one of the Berbers threatening the continued survival of an old-fashioned rocking horse. JD sighed with relief and relaxed his grip on the gun. It was so quiet in the roof, even creepier than the hallways below.
A splash of dark red caught the photographer’s eye and he knelt down to touch the stain with one finger. The blood was starting to dry and JD figured that whoever it was that was bleeding must have been just about all out. Another smudge of blood a little further on was dry and JD amended his last thought to probably dead. He looked over to Buck and whistled softly. The thin trail of dry blood disappeared in the centre of the room.
Vin grimaced as the kitchen door swung closed behind Azziz and banged into the Texan’s sore wrist. The man had walked through and stopped without regard to the men behind him. Vin snuck a look around the Berber’s stationary body and saw Josiah and Nathan both with weapons aimed at the door, one a rifle and the other a deadly blade.
"Knock, knock, fellas," Vin said, waiting until the men relaxed before nudging Azziz with the door. Azziz moved further into the room to allow Vin and Chris entry.
Nathan put his knife away and smiled. "You should make more noise," he admonished.
Chris moved into the room, slumping against one of the benches. "I’ll get Vin to scratch at the door next time," he said, then flicking his hand casually in the direction of the basement door added, "Any movement from down below?"
Vin stepped silently to the door in question and listened for sounds, both in the basement and kitchen behind him.
"Not a peep, but the walls in these places are pretty thick. McCluskey could be having a party down there and we wouldn’t know."
"You could be more right than you know, Josiah. We think he may have stashed Travis down there. The others have got Anderson and Mac cornered in the attic. One of them’s hurt… badly."
Coming back to the trio, Vin added, "And there’s no sign of Travis being with them so he’s either with McCluskey or somewhere else entirely. Trouble is we don’t have time to wait and ask, gotta act as if Orrin’s down there," Azziz stood guard at the door leading outside, watching for the police.
"He’s got the better position, dark, known territory, hostage," Josiah said.
"We need a plan," Nathan added.
Chris and Vin glanced at each other.
"Smoke."
"Noise."
"Care to share?" Josiah asked.
Chris nodded at the archaeologist. "Simple. You and Nathan can make noise. Vin, Azziz and I will go in under a smokescreen…"
"That’s sounds risky and both of you are already injured," Nathan interjected, but Chris was shaking his head.
"Not if the noise is coming from the other side of the room. All basements have windows. Smash a few and drop in a little surprise package or two at the same time as we slip in unnoticed."
"Still sounds…" Nathan persisted.
"Whole thing’s risky, doc," Vin assured him. "This ain’t no better or worse than a hundred other risks and time’s runnin’ out. If you can think of something better spit it out now."
But Nathan couldn’t so the men prepared to carry out Chris’s plan.
"How’ll you know when to go in?" Josiah asked them, taking two extra smoke bombs off Vin.
"We’ll wait by the door and listen real hard," Vin said.
Josiah could have sworn the man was almost enjoying himself. Nothing like a call to action to lift a man’s spirits. "Then I’ll make sure to smash them real hard," Josiah confirmed. "If there’s a problem, I’ll send Nate back and have a look around for another way in before coming back myself."
"Once you’re done with the smoke and noise, get low as you can and cover us from the windows," Vin added. "Watch your backs. We’re expecting company any time now."
The men moved to take their positions. Nathan and Josiah darted out the back door and vanished around the corner to search for the basement windows they all hoped would be there.
Vin pulled out a bandanna from his satchel. "You’ll need this," he said, pulling the loose end of his head-dress around his face for protection from the smoke. Chris took it and tied it around his head with a nod of thanks. Azziz came up and adjusted his own scarf to cover his mouth and nose.
"You are injured," Azziz said. "Best I go first."
Vin gripped the man’s shoulder a moment. "Straight down and move off to the left if you can. I’ll come down next and go off to the right." He released Azziz and looked at Chris. "Larabee, you hold the stairs and stay low, cover us."
Chris nodded. "All quiet up stairs," he whispered as they shuffled against the door and began the short wait. "Don’t know if that’s good or not." He met Vin’s glittering eyes, peering at him over the edge of the scarf.
"Don’t make lotsa noise playin’ hide an’ seek," Vin told him, breaking off his gaze as Azziz carefully cracked the door open. A few minutes later the first tinkle of cracking glass sounded from below.
The tinkle became a smash and Chris pushed open the door with a hushed, "Go!"
"They can’t just vanish," Ezra said to JD as they stared down at the muddy-brown smudge at their feet. "There’s something here we’re not seeing."
"We’re not seeing any more blood, that’s what we’re not seeing," Buck said, coming up behind them. Abdullah and the others were busy pulling down the shrouds; Buck stomped around on the floor testing for hollow spaces. His boot thudded against the corner of a gentleman’s valise, shifting it out of the position it had sat in for the past eighteen months. The floorboards beneath the valise were a shade or two darker than the boards that had been bared to the hot sun. Where blood had leaked through a tattered, worn corner of the trunk the boards were even darker.
"Well, hallo," Buck breathed, getting down on one knee to shove a folded cloth and a box of candles to the floor. "Boys, I think we just hit pay dirt."
Ezra, JD and the others crowded around as Buck lifted the lid.
"Oh, my god," JD exclaimed, pulling away and clapping a hand over his mouth as the trunk’s lid banged open.
Abdullah hissed and there was a rustling as several of the men moved their hands in an ancient ward against evil.
"It would seem that Mr. McCluskey and Mr. Wilson have quite a bit in common," Ezra said in a barely controlled voice. There was more of the sheeting in the trunk, dumped carelessly in a half-hearted attempt at covering the contents below. One corner of the sheeting had billowed as the trunk lid was lifted to uncover the mortal and very grisly remains of Wallace Andersen. A black hole, the skin around it burnt and stained a macabre purplish-grey, wet blood and other matter still oozing out, punctured the centre of his forehead.
"Now we know who was leaking out all that blood," Buck commented. His voice sounded as pale as his face looked. He reached in and pulled the sheet back a little further. Blood from the bullet-wound had tracked paths down the man’s face giving it the appearance of a grotesque mask. Andersen’s eyes were wide open and his mouth gaped uselessly above the ruin of his throat. His white jacket and shirt were bright red front and back. The back of his head was gone.
The sound of retching and the sweet fetid smell of fresh vomit filled the hot room. Buck turned concerned eyes to JD and swallowed down on his own rebellious gut. "Someone open a window," he said. "We haven’t finished in here yet."
"May I suggest we stay together, at least in pairs," Ezra added. "And when you’re ready, Mr. Dunne, we’ll be needing pictures…"
"What the hell for?" Buck questioned suddenly furious. "That’s… that’s…"
"Nauseating, repulsive… vile?" Ezra answered. "This whole business has been abhorrent from the start. However, there’s a little matter of evidence should Wilson ever make it to court. If Mr. Dunne feels unable to take the necessary photographs then if he would be so kind as to loan me the camera, I will undertake the duty myself."
"No, I’ll do it," JD said. "I’m fine, just a shock was all. I mean, I was expecting him to be dead just not so dead as that. I’m fine." JD pulled his camera around and started removing the lens cap. "I’ll do the trunk and then go back and get some pictures of the hall. Should have thought to do that in the first place."
Ezra stayed with JD, pointing out different angles and exposing more of the body for the photographs while Buck and the others continued searching for Macdonald Wilson. A window had been open, but the air was still rife with vomit and death. Buck, intent on his search, didn’t hear JD and Ezra leave the attic to investigate the halls, but he heard them coming back ten minutes later.
"Buck, the gendarmes are downstairs. We gotta get out of here!" JD yelled, dashing up the stairs.
"Indeed," Ezra confirmed. "Immediate withdrawal does seem the wisest."
"Hell," Buck swore. The room had been turned upside down, but there was no sign of Wilson. He had indeed, it seemed, vanished without a trace. Buck waved the rest of the men down the stairs, pausing for a last look before he joined them. The room felt creepier now than when he’d first walked in and he imagined the walls were contracting and expanding with relief - a sigh, a whisper, a giggle…
Buck looked up.
Several things happened at once.
Buck saw what appeared to be a widening crack in the ceiling. The hall below began to fill with alarmed shouts – some English, some French; JD came back up the stairs, there was a muffled thump from somewhere else in the hotel that vibrated through the walls and rattled every window, and the crack took the shape of a door, crashed open in a violent downward arc and revealed the blood-soaked, knife-wielding crazed visage of Macdonald Wilson.
Buck didn’t have time to register any one event. It was too much to take in. He stumbled back from the wildly swinging door and managed to get out a strangled half-scream of surprise and anger before Wilson leapt down and slashed out with the knife. JD came up beside Buck just as the knife came down and the previously quiet room echoed with the taller man’s roar of fury. Buck pushed JD back down the stairs, his anger turning to pain as he fell down after him, his chest bloody and on fire, mad laughter and a frightened pained voice whirling around in his head until shock and pain sent him plummeting down into unconsciousness.
Azziz, Vin and Chris met no resistance as they raced down the stairs, glass still flying out from the windows as Josiah and Nathan systematically smashed as many as they could. Smoke bombs were thrown in to clatter on the hard concrete floor and go off in a cloud of thick white smoke.
Azziz reached the bottom of the stairs, his rifle to his shoulder. Visibility was almost zero. Sunshine was streaming in from the smashed windows, but had no hope of piercing the thick smoke in such an enclosed area. A tap on his shoulder and the young Berber broke off to the left, keeping the wall at his back and his finger on the trigger.
Tanner had left his marksman’s rifle strapped to his back and his shotgun hidden under his cloak. There wasn’t enough room for either weapon and the risk of someone else being caught in the blast from the sawn-off was too great. He kept his sprained hand close against his body, his swollen fingers closed loosely around the hilt of his knife and the blade pointing downward. He kept a comfortable but firm grip on his pistol with his other hand, his arm bent as if to guard the knife from view and waited a moment, watching Azziz disappear into the smoke, before turning to check Chris’s position. The mercenary was right behind him.
Chris indicated that Vin should move off and settled into a crouch on the bottom step. The only sound in the room was the windows shattering and that quickly stopped as Josiah and Nathan ran out of glass. Chris could see their shadows through the smoke as it billowed and shifted. When the men were in position, he called out a warning to McCluskey.
"Come out, McCluskey. You’re surrounded."
There was no reply, not a sound. The quiet was unnerving. Chris would have expected to hear either McCluskey or Travis coughing by now. Even through the cloth covering his mouth and nose, his throat was beginning to tickle. His eyes were already watering and pretty soon he knew he’d start coughing.
"McCluskey!"
Chris shifted from the stairs and faded to his right, tucking himself half under the staircase should McCluskey have gotten a fix on his voice.
"Come on, Mack! Give it up!"
He’s not here. Chris knew it. Every gut instinct he had was telling him that McCluskey had somehow given them the slip. The only thing left was to find out how. Chris cringed back as the smoke swirled and parted to reveal an almost formless figure. He brought his gun up.
"Tanner, comin’ in."
Chris relaxed, breathing heavily and then wishing he hadn’t when a cough threatened to erupt. "Hell, man. I nearly shot you."
Vin’s outline formed completely as he came in closer, his cloak and loose headgear giving the impression of a ghost fresh in from Halloween haunting. He gave a soft grunt that was half-laugh and half-disgust at having lost McCluskey. "He’s flown the coop, Chris. Don’t know how, but he has."
Chris came out from under the stairs and stood straight, forgetting for a minute that he had a chunk of flesh missing from his side. He felt Vin’s hand under his arm supporting him and realised he must have nearly stumbled. "Not a word," he said warningly to Tanner and was annoyed to hear the other man laughing.
"Let’s get Sanchez and Jackson down here. Start searching for another exit," he said, his voice sounding stronger than he felt and feeling satisfaction as Tanner’s hand left his arm to carry out his order.
"There is something over this way."
Chris jumped when Azziz’s voice came out of the dark beside him. The man tugged on his sleeve and Chris followed him around the room. The smoke was slowly clearing, curling out of the glassless windows in elegant sworls. A flashlight cut through the gloom that remained and swept across the room searchingly to stop on the object that Azziz had seen. Grumbling and some colourful cursing announced the arrival of Josiah and Nathan, and the men – guns still drawn – came over to where Chris now stood. Azziz shone the flashlight over the full length of an ornate wardrobe, its doors hanging off its hinges, the drawers littering the ground at their feet. It was old and English, and completely out of place.
Azziz concentrated the light on the back of the wardrobe. "Look," he said, stepping closer and aiming the flashlight into the corners.
"It’s a door," Josiah said, astonished, as the narrowing circle of light showed an angular latch. "A secret door."
"Where does it go?" Nathan asked. "There were no openings outside."
Chris stepped into the robe and pushed against the door, jiggling the latch and then kicking it in frustration. "Locked tight."
Vin pulled his shotgun out. "I can shoot it." But Josiah was already stepping forward and removing his backpack.
"No," he said. "I’ve got a better idea." He knelt down on the floor of the wardrobe and began pulling out the small packets of powder he’d brought with him. "I use this for controlled explosions on sites. Can’t be blowing up artefacts thousands of years old…"
"I’ll go check upstairs," Vin said.
"I’ll come with you," Nathan added.
"Watch out for strays," Chris called out after them.
Nathan went straight to the back door while Vin checked the kitchen doors, opening them carefully with his foot and standing back out of their way.
"All clear," Nathan called, crossing the room to join up with Vin in the hall outside the kitchen.
The two men were approaching the stairs when the passageway exploded with activity. Abdullah, his brothers and cousins came running down the service stairs, gendarmes came running down the hall, someone cried out and was answered by worried yells, and a muffled explosion came from the kitchen behind them. Vin and Nathan were caught in a wave of confusion. The oncoming police blocked their way back into the kitchen and the Berbers couldn’t stop their fast descent, in any case there were more gendarmes coming along the hall on the first floor and they could hear the yells of the Americans who had inadvertently been left behind.
The resounding click of several guns being aimed in their direction had all the men freezing where they stood though the cries from above still carried down the stairs.
"Don’t move." Lieutenant Casselle shouldered his way through the line of gendarmes. "You are all under arrest."
McCluskey was almost insane with fury. Tanner had been within his sights, his finger had been pressing down on the trigger; justice was within his reach at last, and the damned American had been saved again. So close… he should kill Travis now, salvage at least part of this miserable excuse for an assignment… but the very real need for a way out of Casablanca prevented him from such action. Travis could well be his ticket to freedom, everything else was going to pot, and he needed time to think, time to plan… and then there was Macdonald.
Macdonald would do as he was told to a point and then after that he was completely unpredictable. So far, he’d been controllable, but Davis wasn’t around to do the controlling. He shrugged and shoved Travis in the back.
"Keep it moving, old man. We haven’t got all day. Places to go, people to see, you know." Mack sniggered as Travis stumbled along in front, his hands tied and a gag tied tightly around his mouth.
McCluskey had visited the palace on several occasions. One of the former Sultan’s sons was a close friend. It was he that owned the residence and was renovating it into a hotel for the tourists that had been streaming into Morocco for centuries.
‘They always come,’ the Sultan’s son had told the Englishman. ‘Why should I not make them pay for the privilege?’
McCluskey had agreed with the man and even invested a small fortune in the scheme, but the renovations had been stalled by the war and continued unrest under the rule of the French. He’d discovered the tunnel after spending hours bent over blueprints and building plans. At first, it was just a blank spot in the blueprints, an alcove that had no use. The builder’s plans showed the alcove as a doorway. McCluskey was sufficiently intrigued to roll up the blueprints, tuck them under his arm, grab a flashlight and investigate the door to nowhere for himself.
The door was hidden behind some old furniture. It wasn’t locked, but the hinges were worn and corroded, and creaked ominously in the quiet night. The door was the entrance to a hidden tunnel that led, as McCluskey discovered, under the grounds of the palace and into the old medina, opening out between a women’s hammam and a dismal looking shop that sold odd-smelling herbs and papyrus manuscripts covered in small, tight Aramaic letters.
McCluskey had kept his discovery to himself, working on it whenever he visited on the off-chance that he would need it one day – it always paid to have a secret escape tunnel wherever one could. A line of electric lights had been his own work. The bulbs were bright and harsh in the cool gloom of the tunnel and provided enough illumination to traverse the rough path without any problem – if you weren’t tied, gagged and suffering several bruises.
After Macdonald had raided the Café Americain and brought back his prize trophies, McCluskey had reopened the tunnel, checked the lights and left a haversack of supplies at the ready. An hour after dawn he’d driven his car into the medina and parked it outside the hammam. While JD was taking chances getting close to the palace, McCluskey was walking up to the back gate. They missed each other by scant minutes.
By the time Josiah Sanchez had blown the lock on the door in the palace basement, McCluskey and Travis were already driving back into the city.
"I’ll get Vin and Nate," Josiah said, as the flashlight shone into what was obviously some kind of tunnel. Electric lights studded the walls, some glaring brightly, others flickering erratically.
Azziz stepped into the tunnel, Chris following behind, while Josiah jogged up the stairs to the kitchen. He hadn’t made it to the top of the stairs before he turned around and came back down.
"We’ve got company," he said. "You two go on and I’ll cover up the door."
"Is it the French?" Chris asked. "Have they got the others?"
"Yes and I don’t know. Leave word at the Café if you can. We’ll try and get back there tonight."
"Be careful, Josiah," Chris warned.
"Always," was the reply, and then the door was covered up and Chris turned to follow Azziz down the tunnel.
"Do you know where we are?" Chris asked, peering out into the busy street and crinkling his nose at the smells wafting around him. There was no sign of McCluskey or Travis.
"Yes, old town. Palace over there," Azziz replied. He was pointing to a spot past the shops on the other side of the street and Chris could see part of the palace wall in between the buildings. "Come, we go to a safe place."
The men holstered their weapons and Chris adjusted the scarf he still wore around his neck so the ends concealed his bandaged wound and bloody clothes. The heat outside was oppressive after the coolness of being underground and, as they moved along the street, Chris could feel the sweat start to soak his clothes and an ache begin to throb in his head. He followed the other man down one alley and another, moving swiftly and unhampered though people were everywhere, until they reached a small hut built of scrap metal and wooden crates.
"Come," Azziz said again. "We are home."
Vin laid his weapons on the floor and straightened to hold his hands above his head; beside him Nathan did the same. Abdullah and his men looked around as if they intended to fight their way out, but a harsh word from Vin in their native language and they too lay down their guns in surrender. A fight from the first floor, angry voices and painful groans, and Ezra’s affronted southern accent made Lieutenant Casselle move forward.
"Stand aside," he said to the native men before calling up the stairs. "Whoever is up there, I insist you come down at once. Your friends are already under arrest."
"Sounds like someone’s hurt," Nathan said. "I’m a doctor. Maybe they need help."
Casselle turned to give Nathan a cool look. "You will wait where you are," he replied. "My men will bring them down." He came back to where Vin and Nathan stood. "You may put your hands down. If you have any other weapons I suggest you surrender them now."
Nathan carefully pulled his knives free of the scabbard on his back and handed them, hilt first, to the closest gendarme. Vin also handed over a knife and the marksman’s rifle. The shotgun remained hidden under his cloak.
"Very good. Now, which of you would like to explain just what is going on?"
"Casselle, thank God you are here!" Ezra appeared at the top of the stairs, his clothes dishevelled, a smear of blood across one cheek. He glanced to the men coming up behind him and then trotted down the stairs muttering polite, "excuse me’s," to the men he passed, to stop in front of the Lieutenant. "You would not believe what has occurred, my friend. It is monstrous, monstrous I tell you." Ezra paused both for effect and to take in the condition of Vin and Nathan, passing them a measured stare before returning his attention to the Frenchman. "A friend of ours, a very important man, was kidnapped last night. We followed the culprits here where they took up arms against us and forced us to return fire. You would have seen the damage they wrought in their retreat from justice."
"Quite," Casselle murmured. "Who is responsible for this outrage, Monsieur Standish? I had thought it was these men, but you say they are with you?"
"Indeed, Henri. These natives are our guides and have proved invaluable in our hopes to bluff the kidnappers into releasing our friend. Unfortunately, the kidnappers are quite mad…"
"Kidnappers? How many would you say were involved?" Casselle interrupted, quite taken with Ezra’s impressive story and intense telling. The American gave the impression that Henri Casselle was the only man that could solve this terrible incident.
Ezra waved his hands expressively. "Oh, four, five perhaps as many as six. You’ve seen the damage for yourself. We held our fire as long as possible in the hope that this situation could be handled peacefully, but alas it was at dreadful consequences to my compatriots. This gentleman here…" Ezra waved a hand toward Vin. "Was attacked by one of the kidnappers and suffered severe damage to his wrist and…" Vin patted his ribs and rubbed a hand over his head. "… Ribs, and we suspect a head injury as well. Another compatriot has received a knife wound to his chest. These men are fiendish, Henri, and I thank God you are here to take control of this… travesty!"
"A knife wound?" Nathan stepped toward Ezra and put a hand on the southerner’s shoulder. "Who? How serious?"
Ezra grasped Nathan’s hand with his own and held it firmly. While he’d been speaking, the gendarmes that had come on Ezra, JD and the injured Buck in the hallway above had started down the stairs. Three of them carried Buck between them while JD held some torn sheeting to the savage-looking wound. "Henri, this man is a doctor and our injured friend is in dire need…"
Nathan didn’t wait for permission to move. He pulled the pack from his shoulders and raced up the stairs two at a time, meeting the small group halfway. "Bring him into the kitchen. Carefully! You’re doing a good job, JD, keep that packing on the wound." Nathan placed his hand over Buck’s brow not liking the cool, slick feel of the man’s skin. He looked down the stairs to Ezra and Vin. "He’s going into shock. We’ll need blankets, something for bandages and a car to transport him to the clinic. He needs immediate surgery."
"Henri?" Ezra asked, shifting responsibility to the Lieutenant who had it within his power to keep them all under lock and key for as long as he saw fit.
"Of course, of course," he replied and clicked his fingers to his men. The guns were put away and one of the men came forward. Casselle addressed his second-in-command with a stern expression. "Godfrin, have the car brought around at once and get some blankets in here. Pull down those velvet curtains in the drawing room if you need to." He paused to look up at Abdullah. "You men come down and help."
Vin had disappeared into the kitchen as concerned about the explosion as he was Buck Wilmington. He met Josiah at the door to the basement just as the big man was walking through.
"There was definitely a tunnel on the other side. Chris and Azziz are following it to see where it comes out… probably the other side of the wall. Maybe further, it looks old. I’ve patched the entry up as best as I can… there’s a lot of damage…" Josiah said in a low voice.
Tanner was nodding. "Lock this door, might hold ‘em off for awhile. Buck’s been cut. Nate’s bringin’ him in, but he might need help. I’ll watch the door."
Nathan backed through the swing doors, holding them open for the men carrying Buck. "Keep him steady, now," he warned. "Straight through and onto the countertop in the middle… Steady!… Josiah, take over from JD. JD, get me some water."
Buck was carefully lowered onto the counter and Nate went to work.
When Lieutenant Casselle’s car was brought around to the kitchen door Buck was ready for transport from the palace to the clinic. Nathan looked around to find that Vin Tanner had disappeared. Josiah had shaken his head against any questions and Ezra had deliberately looked to the basement door. Vin had been sitting in front of it, looking for all the world like an exhausted, injured native guide when Nathan had first started working on Buck. Since then another had taken his place and Tanner had vanished.
Casselle ordered a small contingent of gendarmes to guard the attic room. They attempted re-entry but were repelled by Macdonald’s Mauser. The Lieutenant and Standish conferred and decided that siege tactics would be more appropriate at this stage. The mad man was on his own with nowhere to go and to insure their bird stayed in its cage, several men equipped with binoculars were positioned around the grounds and both gates were barricaded.
The tunnel was not mentioned and when Ezra checked, it was to find that Tanner had locked the basement door behind him. Even so, Abdullah and one of his brothers lingered in the kitchen after the Americans had gone, with one radio and a burning sense of outrage.
Tanner came out into the afternoon sun blinking, two women giggling at his sudden appearance and the disarming smile he gave them as he realised where he was; loitering outside the women’s hammam was not the wisest thing to do in the old section of Casablanca. He ducked into the apothecary next door and began to rattle off a series of apparently unrelated questions to the owner.
It took twenty minutes and the purchase of several ointments and potions for his sprained wrist to find out that the herbalist had seen the son of an old friend lead a foreigner down the street. Before Vin left, the herbalist appeared to consider something and then surprised the agent with a question of his own, in fluent English.
"You are the Amreeka, Tarak’s friend?"
Vin nodded and the old man spoke again. "Then Azziz has taken your friend to his grandmother’s home."
"Thank you," Vin replied, slipping into the same mode of formal English that the herbalist used.
But the man was not finished. "Early this morning, an Englishman parked his automobile in the street…" The man pointed to where the car had stood. "… And paid my grandson to guard it. The English do strange things at times."
Vin got the impression that the man thought little of the English. "Can you describe him?"
"Taller than you, thin but not weak, dark hair, dangerous eyes. My grandson made him pay in advance for his services… a wise move perhaps."
"McCluskey," Vin said with a brief nod. "He is a killer. Your grandson is very wise. He went through the tunnel ahead of Azziz and my friend."
"He and another foreigner drove off in the direction of the harbour," the man continued. "I sent my grandson to watch and see where he stopped. The tunnel has not been used in many years and the sound of gunfire has spread all over Casablanca today. I was suspicious."
Vin took the man’s hand and gripped it firmly. "Thank you again, my friend," he said.
The man stared levelly at the Amreeka. He had not known of the man before Tarak’s death, but since then muttered rumours of mysterious exploits and dark skills had filtered through the back rooms of Bidonville. Only the trust and belief Tarak’s brothers had in this man had held them back from aimless and bloody retribution.
"Tarak’s family and mine share many friendships," the old man said simply before turning his back and returning to his tonics and remedies.
The bell over the door clanged once as Vin left to find Chris and round up the others.
When the herbalist turned back to retrieve a jar of dried camel dung from the counter, it was to see a tattered matchbook perched against the dark glass container with gold letters emblazoned across its cover. Café Americain.
The man nodded to himself and slipped the matchbook into his pocket. He would give it to his grandson as soon as the boy returned.
Nathan spent the afternoon in his clinic stitching up Buck Wilmington. The injured man had stayed unconscious, with the help of ether, until near dusk and had then awoken, groggy and in pain, and demanding to be taken back to his hotel room. Nathan had been against the move completely, but Josiah had stepped in to convince his friend that a compromise might be the answer. The Café was a central place they all knew and could go to regroup and figure out what to do next.
"Besides," Josiah had added when he noticed the determined scowl on the doctor’s face. "Lightening never strikes twice in the same place and we wouldn’t want it striking here at the clinic and burning innocent victims… would we?"
Nathan wasn’t happy about it but had to admit that Josiah was right. McCluskey, and now Wilson, seemed to kill and injure indiscriminately, and though Wilson was under siege back at the palace and McCluskey was running for his life, it wasn’t a risk Nathan was prepared to take. Trouble seemed to be following his new friends around and Nathan definitely didn’t want any of it at the mission.
So Wilmington was bundled back up and carefully transported across town to the saloon. Deposited in the bed formerly belonging to Rick Baine, he’d slept the few remaining hours of the day away with Josiah keeping guard by the window and JD Dunne perched on an uncomfortable chair by the bed. The photographer was as fast asleep as the patient, his snores filling the small room and filtering out into the living room where Nathan had spread out on the sofa to get some sleep himself while he waited for the rest of their odd group to return.
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