The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

The blue 1941 Ford four-door Baker took from the consulate motor pool the next day carried two extra tires and wheels, four five-gallon cans of gasoline, a five-gallon can of water, and a crate of canned food.

‘‘That survival equipment isn’t really necessary?’’ Canidy asked.

‘‘It may be,’’ Baker said, with one of his rare smiles. ‘‘I’ve been here before. My experience is that when Michelin says ‘dirt, single-lane road’ it’s a euphemism for ‘rocky camel trail.’ I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we need the tires and wheels. I hope we don’t need the food and water.’’

A few miles outside Marrakech, the road narrowed, and a mile later the paving disappeared as they began to climb the Atlantic slope of the Atlas Mountains. The road was steep, twisting, and before long one lane; and there were long delays waiting for Marrakech-bound trucks, some battered buses, and a very few automobiles to pass.

It was half past four when they reached Tizi-n-Tichka pass. From there they went downhill in low. It was dark when they reached Ouarzazate, where they would turn off the ‘‘highway’’ onto the ‘‘unpaved dirt road’’ to Ksar es Souk.

They put up in the Hôtel des Chasseurs, drank two bottles of surprisingly good Moroccan burgundy with a roast lamb dinner, and then went to their simply furnished but clean and comfortable rooms.

They left Ouarzazate early the next morning, and reached Ksar es Souk shortly after two in the afternoon. The palace was larger than Canidy thought it would be, an enormous structure of what looked like adobe. The whole thing, built of dried mud and narrow flat stones upon a rocky outcropping, looked medieval, a castle out of the Crusades.

As they drove near, masked horsemen appeared and rode with them as the Ford bucked and lurched over the rocks in the road.

‘‘Berbers,’’ Baker said. ‘‘They’re Caucasian—white. There’s a theory that they’re descended from the Crusaders. Notice anything unusual about them?’’

‘‘Those are Thompson machine guns and Browning automatic rifles. You’d expect swords and flintlocks.’’

‘‘That’s not what I meant,’’ Baker said. ‘‘What I mean is that we’re surrounded. We couldn’t turn back now if we wanted to.’’

Canidy turned and looked. There were now more than thirty horsemen, all armed, all masked, all riding on fine-looking horses, and none more than twenty feet behind them.

When they reached the palace, they found a village built around the outer wall. Through a small gate and then a larger one, Canidy saw that there was another wall.

A few horsemen who had come out to meet them rode through the large gate, but the majority just milled around the Ford when they stopped. Baker made up his mind, put the car in gear again, and drove through the gate.

Once inside, Canidy saw that they were in a dry moat, and the wall he had seen was the wall of the palace, rising five or six stories above them.

One of the horsemen dismounted, walked to the car, and spoke to them in French.

Baker, offering his diplomatic passport, asked for an audience with the pasha of Ksar es Souk.

The Berber pretended utter incomprehension.

The standoff went on until a new group of eight horsemen walked their animals through the gate into the dry moat. Two of them wore golden cords on their burnooses, identifying them as noblemen. The noblemen carried shotguns, but the other six were armed with Thompson submachine guns and rifles.

‘‘Who are you, and what do you want?’’ one of the two men with gold-corded burnooses asked from under his mask.

‘‘My name is Baker,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’m an American consular officer. May I ask who you are?’’

‘‘What are you doing here?’’ the tall, bright-eyed Moroccan asked. Baker recognized the voice of the pasha of Ksar es Souk.

‘‘I was looking for the pasha of Ksar es Souk,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I’d hoped to have a word with him.’’

‘‘Yes? Perhaps.’’

‘‘If I’m not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the pasha. Your Excellency and I shared a delightful meal in Paris not long ago.’’

‘‘How could I forget, Mr. Baker?’’ Sidi el Ferruch said, removing his mask. His face, though, remained masklike. ‘‘You were just passing through the neighborhood, I gather, and on an impulse decided to drop by?’’ he said with un-moving eyes.

Baker grinned. ‘‘Not exactly. As I said, I’d be quite pleased to have a word with you. And’’—he paused a moment—‘‘with your friend Eric Fulmar.’’

‘‘There is no one here of that name,’’ the noble said.

In Arabic, the other noble said, ‘‘I know the other one. I grew up with him. His name is Dick Canidy.’’

Canidy recognized both his own name and the voice.