In his role as pasha of Ksar es Souk, each afternoon el Ferruch had to receive his subjects in the main hall of the palace. He sat on cushions and drank (and offered) tea while hearing his Berbers’ complaints and giving (or denying) his permission for marriages and business transactions. After these audiences were over he evaluated with Ahmed Mohammed the information
that had come into their possession, then dispatched a daily synopsis to Thami el Glaoui in Marrakech.
While el Ferruch was engaged in what Fulmar called, sarcastically but not inaccurately, the discharge of his King Solomon duties, Fulmar himself, trailed by Berbers awed by his ability to handle (dead) electric mains that (live) knocked them down, practiced the profession he’d learned in Germany and went around the palace doing what he could to improve what he called the Edison Model #1 electrical system.
To do so required copper wire, transformers, switches, and other electrical devices. The Berbers were of course willing—even delighted—to acquire the necessary supplies by stealing them from the French and Germans. But after they kept bringing back the wrong equipment, and several of them were knocked unconscious grabbing the wrong wire, Fulmar asked permission to go along with them on their nightly forays.
At first el Ferruch wanted to say no. But then he realized that Fulmar was speaking fluent Arabic, and that while he was no Berber, still, in his blue robes and blond beard and deeply tanned skin, he could not be told from one.
‘‘Theft only, Eric,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘And that discreetly. No sabotage. No suggestion that what you are stealing is being used for its intended purpose. Let them think that the wire is being stolen to be melted down for the copper.’’
Fulmar nodded.
‘‘If, however, it should be necessary at some later time to sabotage the electrical or telephone systems, I would be very interested to know the best way to do that.’’
‘‘I’ll make the drawings,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘No problem at all. And I can tap into their telephone lines, if you’d like. Or their telegraph and teletypewriter lines. You’d need a Teletype machine if I tapped those lines, or a telegraph printer. But we can listen to their telephone calls very easily. >
‘‘They couldn’t tell?’’
‘‘I was educated at Marburg,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘Remember? Right about now I was scheduled to be Herr Doktor von Fulmar, Elektroingenieur.’’
Sidi el Ferruch rode with Fulmar on several middle-of-the -night wire and transformer raids, and proved to his own satisfaction that Fulmar could do what he promised.
As a reward, he satisfied Fulmar’s curiosity about his wives, whom Fulmar had never seen. He took them to the wives’ wing of the palace, and from behind a screened window he let Fulmar have a quick look at them without their veils. They were sitting together, sewing.
‘‘And they’re both pregnant?’’ Fulmar asked.
El Ferruch nodded.
‘‘And that’s how they’re going to spend the rest of their lives, that’s it? That’s all they get out of it?’’
‘‘That’s all they expect from it,’’ el Ferruch said.
‘‘Just when I think I’m beginning to understand things,’’ Fulmar said, ‘‘I realize I don’t understand anything.’’
‘‘The Koran says that is the beginning of wisdom.’’
Washington, D.C. December 31, 1941
It took Canidy and Baker nine days to travel from Kunming, China, to Washington, D.C. And they had hardly been out of each other’s sight from the moment they had left Kunming. Even so, Canidy knew no more about what he was expected to do when they walked through Union Station in Washington than he had when he left Kunming. Baker knew how to keep his mouth shut. Nor did he give any hint that their final destination was Jimmy Whittaker’s house on Q Street until their cab pulled up to the door in the brick wall.
‘‘Under happier circumstances . . .’’ Canidy said.
He wondered what had happened to Jimmy. He’d heard that the Air Corps in the Philippines had been wiped out in the first few days after Pearl Harbor, and they’d handed the pilots rifles and told them they were now in the infantry.
The poor bastard.
Canidy recalled their last meeting together in Washington, when they had gotten drunk and Jimmy had told him that he was in love with Cynthia Chenowith—even though she was screwing his uncle.
When he climbed out of the cab after Baker, he saw that there were two policeman types sitting in a black Chevrolet parked at the curb. A third policeman in plainclothes walked up to them.
Baker took a leather folder from his jacket, opened it, and showed it to the cop. He examined Baker’s face with a pencil flashlight.
‘‘We didn’t know when you were coming,’’ the cop said.
‘‘We just got here,’’ Baker said.
The cop held the gate open for them to pass through.