The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

"So would I, Captain," MacArthur said. ‘‘You are dismissed. ’’

The Golf Course Palace of the Pasha of Marrakech Marrakech, Morocco March 12, 1942

Thami el Glaoui’s eighth hole was a long, dogleg par five. A stroke—at least—could be saved by cutting across the dogleg, but that risked entanglement in a tall stand of trees beyond which was a cleverly placed pond. The pasha of Marrakech always played his eighth hole conservatively. The pasha of Ksar es Souk, on the other hand, when he was playing with Thami, always tried a shot across the trees. More often than not, this aggressiveness worked for him. But the pasha of Marrakech’s more conservative play usually was victorious over the full eighteen holes. His final score would be five or six over par. On his good days, h

owever, Sidi el Ferruch played under par. Today he was having a good day. He birdied the eighth while Thami doubled-bogied. Having chosen a five iron when he should have used a seven, he overshot the green.

For a moment, this made him especially grumpy, because he knew he had only himself to blame. But his spirits improved after he made the ninth green—a nice little par three—in one. Since the pasha of Ksar es Souk also made it on, they walked to the green together.

‘‘Have the Americans revealed yet the name of the French officer?’’ Thami el Glaoui asked about halfway down the fairway.

‘‘No,’’ said Sidi el Ferruch, ‘‘and in fact if I were them I would not reveal it until I had to.’’

‘‘Yes, I understand.’’

‘‘But I have tracked down the identity of the other man they plan to take away on their submarine.’’

‘‘Good.’’

‘‘His name is Grunier, and he is a mining engineer. I also found something else interesting about him: He is no American agent.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘So I naturally asked myself why they want him—and badly enough to spirit him away by submarine.’’

‘‘And you found?’’

‘‘Little, I’m sorry to say,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘He has only recently come to Morocco. Before that he was in Katanga for a number of years. Since in Katanga there are no minerals the Americans need they can’t obtain elsewhere, I’m puzzled about why the Americans want him. They have thousands of mining engineers, so it’s not for his profession. He must therefore know about something either here or in Katanga that they want.’’

‘‘Why don’t you question him?’’

‘‘I’d like to, but unhappily that’s not prudent. If I had him detained, the Sécurité or the Gestapo—which means both in the end—would hear about it. And this would, as a minimum, displease our American friends, who, I’m convinced, prefer to keep the man obscure. And a casual conversation with him would bring the same result, since he would run to the Sécurité the instant the conversation was over.’’

‘‘Then leave him to the Americans.’’

‘‘Yes, honored Father, I think that’s best,’’ Sidi el Ferruch said. ‘‘Although,’’ he continued, ‘‘in light of my knowledge, we might be able to obtain more money for Grunier.’’

‘‘No,’’ Thami el Glaoui said. ‘‘The Americans will invade North Africa this year, I’m sure of it. We are the back door to Europe. When that happens, they will need you and me. But before that happens, I don’t want to be close to them—in their pocket, as they say. Deal with them now, but stay distant.’’

‘‘Yes, dear Father, I will.’’ The old man was quite right, Sidi knew. ‘‘So then we don’t need them waiting?’’

‘‘Move. We’ve held them off long enough.’’

‘‘Good.’’

‘‘And their submarine?’’

‘‘It will take two or three days for them to bring their submarine in.’’

‘‘Then send Mr. Baker his message.’’

That evening, as Eldon Baker walked from his apartment to the café where he usually took his supper, a Berber boy, backing out of a doorway with a huge basket of oranges in his arms, stumbled against him. They both collapsed onto the walk in a tangle of limbs and oranges. After they were up and straightened out, there was a piece of paper in Baker’s jacket pocket that had not been there before. On the paper one word was written in curling, Arabic script: Hejira.

Later, in the café, Baker walked into the toilet, set fire to the paper with his Ronson, and flushed the ashes away.

Rabat, Morocco March 13, 1942

Diego García Albéniz was a Catalan who had fought against Franco in the civil war and who had escaped to French Africa soon after the fall of Madrid. He was also a pretty good physician, who—understandably—knew more than a thing or two about battlefield wounds. This skill had made him useful now and again to both the current and the former pashas of Ksar es Souk. It was, however, not Sidi el Ferruch who needed Dr. Albéniz today. It was Richard Canidy.