The Soldier Spies (Men at War 3)

“The stocky one,” he said. “The one without the leather equipment. Take him inside to the small room or the library. Leave someone with him and make sure that no one else goes into the room with him.”

“And the others?”

“Take them into the main room and get them something to eat and drink. They are not to be bothered.”

“Not even their boots?”

“Not even their boots,” Fulmar said. “They fought well. They deserve honorable treatment.”

When the French arrived and had been herded into the courtyard, Fulmar walked up to them.

“On behalf of His Excellency Sidi Hassan el Ferruch, Pasha of Ksar es Souk, I welcome you to his home. You will be fed and cared for, and when it is time, you will be taken behind American lines.”

He spoke in French. They seemed to accept him as a French-speaking Berber. At least he got no surprised, wary looks.

He was a little puzzled at the lack of excitement. No joy. No cries of pleasure. Then he realized that these people had expected to be taken somewhere in the desert and shot to death by the SS. They were in shock. They hadn’t quite understood yet that they would live.

One of them, a wiry, intense little man, pulled himself together enough to start questioning Fulmar.

But Fulmar turned and walked off without letting him finish. He went into the palace to the small room off the library.

There was a Berber outside the door, and another inside. The German officer was sitting awkwardly on a three-legged stool, his hands still tied behind him.

Fulmar walked over to him, took a curved blade knife from a jewel-encrusted scabbard on the gold cords around his waist, and cut him free.

“Have someone bring my cognac,” Fulmar ordered. “And coffee and oranges and some meat.”

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” the German officer asked as he rubbed his wrists.

"Absolutely,” Fulmar said in flawless German. “I’m an Alt-Marburger, you know—an alumnus of Philips University, Marburg an der Lahn.”

"You’re Fulmar?” the German asked, genuinely surprised.

“At your service, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Fulmar said. “Where the hell did that armored car come from? That could have sent this whole operation down the toilet!”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Thank you, I don’t need an armored car’?”

“It could have fucked things up,” Fulmar repeated, repressing a smile.

They looked at each other.

“This is a little strange, isn’t it?” Fulmar asked.

There had been a brief moment’s emotion. But as quickly as it had come up, both seemed anxious to restrain it.

"Are you going to live up to your end of the bargain? ” the German asked.

“As soon as we get everybody safely out of sight, I’ll take you back to your car,” Fulmar said.

“And what happens between there and Ourzazate?”

“You’re safe between here and there,” Fulmar said. “If I were you, I’d be worried about getting from Ourzazate to Rabat.”

The game was over, Fulmar thought. And the pawns had not been swept from the board.

He wondered why he had no feeling of exultation, and the answer came immediately: A new game had already begun.

Chapter THREE