The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘Grunier is that important to the war,’’ Baker said quietly. ‘‘You know it’s hard, Dick, after growing up and taking seriously all that Mom, Dad, pastors, and teachers taught me about being a good boy, to have to choose not to be a good boy. I expect that there’s an especially unpleasant room in hell waiting for people like me . . . and for you, Dick. I’m certain you have the gift. And I expect you and I will have a lot of time to chat when we meet in that room.’’

‘‘Some gift,’’ Canidy groaned. ‘‘So what do I do next?’’

"We wait. I have a lot of books. I get a lot of reading done waiting."

Café des Deux Sabots Rabat, Morocco February 23, 1942

Müller will always be recognizably a cop, Max von Heurten-Mitnitz reflected as the headwaiter led Müller to the table. Like a priest, naked on a beach where everyone would recognize him for what he was.

‘‘How are you?’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, rising just enough to show proper regard for a friend in Müller’s station. ‘‘Are you well?’’

‘‘I’m late,’’ Müller said, ‘‘but with excuses.’’

‘‘I’m aware you are late,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. He was already into his main course, which was a more than passable Moroccan imitation of bouillabaisse. ‘‘Whose bed were you under? Or do you have a better excuse?’’

‘‘Better,’’ Müller said, laughing. ‘‘Two minor American consular officers drove to the pasha of Ksar es Souk’s palace yesterday. They have returned to Rabat today. My guess is that the two minor consular officers were not paying a social call on Sidi el Ferruch.’’

‘‘Who were the officers?’’

‘‘One was a man named Baker. For a time he was a minor American official who watched over their embassy after we liberated Paris from the French. The other is named Canidy. He seems enough of a nobody that we have no file on him in Morocco. The two of them are obviously intelligence agents.’’

‘‘The Pope is Catholic,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz agreed. ‘‘So what did they tell el Ferruch?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘And they are now back in Rabat?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Put surveillance on them. Real surveillance, not Sécurité surveillance.’’

‘‘That’s already done.’’

‘‘Good. And what about el Ferruch?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘You don’t know what he’s doing? Or you don’t know where he is?’’

‘‘Neither.’’

‘‘Shit,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, ‘‘the elusive Pimpernel. ’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘The hero of a very bad novel that was turned into a very good film with Leslie Howard. The Pimpernel was a British nobleman who saved a number of his French colleagues from the Revolutionary guillotine. None of the French officials could ever figure out who he was, what he was up to, or where he’d turn up next. By rights, Müller, Sidi Hassan el Ferruch ought to be one of the more visible people in Morocco. Find him and keep an eye on him. Let him go about his enterprises, but find out what those are.’’

‘‘It will be done.’’

‘‘And what about young Herr Fulmar?’’

‘‘Still in Ksar es Souk.’’

‘‘That’s as good as a jail. But if he leaves, attend to him like a mother—without letting him become aware of your attentions."

"Yes, sir."

TWELVE