“Yes, Colonel. I see your knowledge of our language is improving. You know what that means, do you not?”
Woodgerd grimly nodded and Sohkoor turned to walk outside the low doorway to where the others waited. Wake tugged at Woodgerd’s sleeve before they emerged.
“So what does that mean? Why’s it so bad?”
“Means the ‘hill of death.’ These aren’t your friendliest of natives, Wake. This is going be a long damn night.”
35
Ibn Aqnaar
Tilaal Mumeet was a small village that clung to the side of a steep hill by the same name. The leader of the clan in that area was a hulk of a man, apparently middle-aged, who towered over everyone else and had a voice incongruously mild and soft. The rest of the party waited outside while Sohkoor and Woodgerd entered a wattled hut in the center of the village. A frigid wind had sprung up that day from the High Atlas in the distance, now blowing across the hillside and reaching inside their burnouses to freeze exposed skin.
Rough-looking young men watched them from the neighboring huts as the occasional woman glided by covered from head to foot in a black burkha, carrying a load of bread or spring fruit. The village was gray and brown, like the clothing and the countryside and the day. Wake and Rork stood staring at the locals as Faber sat under the lee of a wall and morosely kicked sand against a bush.
“Aye, a day like this makes me miss the West Indies. An’ that one’s feelin’ helpless, for sure, sir,” said Rork, eyeing the Frenchman.
Wake walked over to Faber and sat down. “We’ll find her, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll find her.”
Faber looked up, tears filling his eyes. “I will die if we do not. I’ve lost everything I thought was important to me—my good name, respect from the leadership of France. But all that is nothing. Catherine is my life, my reason to exist. She is all that I have.
He sighed. “It all has gone by, Wake, and now here I am, in the middle of nowhere, melancholy in a God-forsaken place I was sent to because my own stupid pride made me arrogant. I dragged her here, you know. She wanted us to stay in Europe, or maybe go to America, but I dragged her here.”
“You were promoted, though. Promoted to an ambassadorship in Morocco from being a consul general in Genoa. That’s an honor, sir.”
Faber shook his head. “Hah . . . They promoted me up—and out of sight, Wake. I was too unsteady for Paris to keep in Europe, especially after that scene with Moltke, so they sent me to Africa, where the worst I could do is alienate some primitive Arabs.”
Against his better judgment, Wake felt sorry for the man. “Morocco is important to France, from what I’ve been told, sir. I think they needed someone they could trust to be ambassador.”
“Paris already had someone they could trust in Morocco, Wake. The commercial attaché is the one with the real power, not me. He does the agreements, socializes with the sultan, lives in a lavish estate. I periodically show the flag from my pathetic office and am expected to know my place. And ignore the whispered insults. No, Morocco was the perfect spot for their purposes—far enough away from the important work and close enough to recall quickly.”
“Well, whatever happens politically, you need to be strong now, Mr. Ambassador. For Catherine, if nothing else.”
Faber nodded. “Yes, on that you are correct, Lieutenant. All else is minor now to me—she is everything.”
***
They climbed the hill silently, Sohkoor and Woodgerd somber, the guardsmen sullen, Faber still depressed, and the two American sailors confused. Wake hadn’t seen a map, and other than the direction of the sun, had no idea where he was and where they were heading.
Rork gazed toward the sunset, a cold red glow between the layers of gray windy clouds. As if reading Wake’s thoughts he said, “That’s the way home, sir. The ocean is somewhere o’er there. A week o’ riding on one o’ these beasts, or maybe three times that by foot.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Sean Rork.”
The top of Tilaal Mumeet was flat and an acre in area, reached as the last of the sun disappeared and the temperature plunged even further. They made camp and shortly thereafter sat around a small fire, drinking a cinnamon tea called hunja and eating chunks of dried and salted lamb. Sohkoor sat apart from them, Woodgerd explaining that he was preparing for the evening by eating special a food, called majoun. It looked indigestible to Wake, but Woodgerd said it had herbs that would assist Sohkoor in understanding what would happen later.
When asked for details, he simply said, “You’re not in Pensacola now, squid. You’re beyond the back of the world and there’re some things I can’t explain. Hell, I don’t understand it myself. You’ll just have to see it for yourself.”
***
Two hours later, after the final prayer toward Mecca, the mountaintop to their east began to glow as the sky, blown clean of clouds, lightened along the horizon. The group was huddled together close around the fire, except for two of the Arabs on picket farther out and Sohkoor still sitting forty feet way, alone. The glow transformed into amber, then pink and soon the moon peeked up over the jagged landscape, a half-crescent that seemed like you could reach out and touch it, the air was so clear.
Wake saw the Arabs glance at Sohkoor, waiting apparently for him to do something. But the scholar still sat, quietly facing east. Faber, who had been silent since his emotional outpouring to Wake earlier, turned to him, his voice sad and low.
“You were her friend. I will not inquire further on that. But I will ask you if you think she will want to stay with me after this.”
Uncomfortable with the subject, for Woodgerd and Rork were
