Rork’s face showed his surprise as he glanced at his friend, then glared at Woodgerd. Pickering asked, “Lieutenant, how in the world do you know these gentlemen?”
“I know Mr. Faber only briefly.” Wake bowed to the Frenchman. “He was the consul general in Genoa and his wife Catherine was an acquaintance of mine. Colonel Woodgerd and I met briefly on a train back in Italy.” Wake sighed. “It seems, gentlemen, that though we all three don’t like it, we’re going to have to live with it to accomplish this mission.”
***
They sat in Woodgerd’s small office as the colonel put his finger on a wall map of Morocco and began a brief on the expedition that would leave the next morning. There were no clues to follow, the plan being to talk to various tribes and leaders along the way and generate some intelligence, then follow up on it. The yellow cast of a large army lantern showed Wake his companions’ emotions—Woodgerd was grim, Faber angry, Pickering confused, and Rork stoically watching them all.
Wake wondered exactly what Faber knew, deciding that it was probably supposition only, or the volatile Frenchman’s reaction would’ve been far more violent. Then he reminded himself that, although it could’ve gone farther with Catherine, it didn’t, and that he had to keep his wits or things would get worse.
Woodgerd turned his attention to Wake and Faber. “I don’t know or care why you don’t like each other, gentlemen. But I will not have either of you jeopardize this mission. So bury your differences. I am in command. Total command. Clear?”
“Oui . . .” muttered Faber.
“We speak English among ourselves during this operation, Mr. Faber,” Woodgerd said quickly.
“Then, yes, I understand you, Colonel. I simply want my wife back.”
“Yes, sir. I understand also.” Wake held out a hand to Faber. “Everyone wants your wife to safely return to you, sir.”
Faber stared at the hand for a moment without taking it.
Woodgerd cleared his throat. “Very good. Now that it seems we’re working together, I’ll continue. Mr. Faber, Mr. Wake, Rork, be here at the Bab Oudaia gate at five in the morning. The expedition will depart half an hour later. By sunrise we will be out of the city and moving on the road to the highlands. Limit your personal gear to one bag. Provisions are provided. We will be moving light and moving fast. You all heard the sultan. We’re not coming back, gentlemen, until we solve this—one way or another. Any further questions?”
No one had any, so Woodgerd dismissed them. As they left the office Wake saw Rork studying him. On the way back to their room neither said a word about the exchange between Faber and Wake, instead listening to Pickering prattle on about the sultan’s relationship with the Berber tribes of the highlands, who didn’t get along with the Arabs of the lowlands. Wake’s last words with Pickering were to request he send a three-line telegraph message to Admiral Case: “No word about missing people. Only one option—I am on government search party. Will report afterward.”
That night Wake couldn’t sleep. His mind kept visualizing Faber, Catherine on the lover’s rampart, Hassan’s sinister glare, and Linda laughing with their children. He wondered where his life had gone astray; at exactly what moment had it descended into the cruel swirl of shame and fear that was consuming him?
He rolled over and tried to shut it all out, knowing he desperately needed to rest. From the darkness he heard Rork.
“Doan’ worry on it too much, sir. We’ve seen a bit o’ this sort o’ thing afore. Got through that, an’ by God, we’ll get through this ’un too . . .”
Wake smiled, glad that his friend was there. They had been in some mortal scrapes before, and always, somehow, had come through. But it had never been like this.
He thought of Hassan’s words, “ . . . let no man or beast fail.”
32
Mu’al-lim Sohkoor
The courtyard of the Kasbah was jammed with donkeys, horses, camels, and carts. The mass of motion and sound and stench, lit by flaming torches and dim lanterns, was accented by the occasional shouted command or curse. Wake couldn’t tell how many men were there, but it looked to be a good number, and he saw that they were uniformed and armed in the Western style. New French Gras bolt-actions were the issued rifle, and British-influenced khaki shirts and trousers were the dress. Each man also carried an ammunition pouch belt filled with thirty innovative eleven-millimeter metallic Gras cartridges.
The only concession to the East was the caps. Green fezzes topped the troops, giving them a deadly comical appearance. Humorous hats or not, Wake studied the troops’ faces with professional interest.
Impressed, he instantly knew these men were veterans of combat. There was no fear, no bravado, just meticulous preparation.
Rork sat astride a horse in the predawn dark. He, like many sailors—Wake included—was distinctly uncomfortable in a saddle. “Oh Lord, I’d rather be ridin’ the end o’ a upper yard in a gale o’ wind in the Southern Ocean than this here beast o’ burden. The bugger looks like he wants ta capsize me bones a’ the first chance. ’Tisn’t natural, I tell ya, to be aloft on a critter such as this.”
Wake was on an older nag—he asked specifically for that—and he laughed at the sight of big bad Bosun Rork afraid of a horse. “Don’t the Irish love horses, Sean?”
“Aye, we all love ’em, but only a few ride ’em. Ya know, it’s mostly the rich English landowners what have ’em back home in Ireland, sir. The peasants, now they ride the draft an’ work horses, not this kind o’ high-strung crazies.”
“Rork, your horse hasn’t even moved since you boarded him. He looks pretty calm to me.”
Rork wagged a finger. “Aye, an’ that’s what the big bastards want ya ta think, sir. Then they kill ya when ya least expect it.”
Wake laughed, a good belly laugh that freed
