The Strange Land

CHAPTER ONE

We came out above the olive trees on to the hillside and everything looked quiet and peaceful in the midday sun. The mountains were a massive line of white shouldering up into the blue sky and the air was still and calm and crystal-clear. Down below us the river wound through the valley, a turgid, brown flood of water, and the only sound was the persistent braying of a donkey. The slope of the ground ahead screened the Mission, but soon I could see the creamy white of the Corrigans’ caravan parked in an olive grove down to the left and then I breasted a rise and all the hillside above the Mission came suddenly into view, and I stopped.

Above — the road there was a great, raw gash of newly-exposed rock and rubble. It ran from the very top of the sheer hill-slope, broadening out as it swept down, and disappeared beyond the next rise of the road. I stood there, my chest heaving, my whole body suddenly paralysed at what I saw. It was a landslide, and I was rooted to the spot by fear of what I should find when I topped the final rise.

Jan joined me. He didn’t say anything, but just stood there beside me, breathing heavily. There was nothing to be said. I started forward again, slowly now, reluctantly. As we climbed the rise, more and more of the hillside became exposed, showing a broader, more chaotic tumble of heaped-up debris. And then, suddenly, we were over the rise and the full extent of the disaster was revealed. A quarter of a mile ahead of us the road ceased, swept away and overlaid by tons of wet, red earth and rock. The Mission had vanished utterly, blotted out as though it had never been. And where the olive trees had stood and the children’s playground and the stables I had built for sick donkeys, there was nothing — nothing but raw, broken earth.

The landslide had swept over it all, obliterating five years’ work and all my hopes.

I didn’t know what to do. I seemed suddenly without feeling. It just didn’t seem real to me. This spot was my home, my whole life. It had been beautiful — a long, whitewashed building looking out across the olive groves to the valley and across to the mountains. It was as much a part of me as my body.

I stared uncomprehendingly at the gang of labourers with their long-handled shovels already at work on the road. They were like pygmies trying to shift a mountain. I felt I must have come to the wrong place, that this couldn’t really be Enfida, couldn’t be Le Mission Anglais — the Dar el Mish’n.

I followed the great red sweep of the landslide down the slopes to the valley bottom and understood why the river had seemed so brown. It was pouring in a white cascade over the base of the landslide.

I felt dazed — bewildered by the violence, the utter ruthlessness of it all. If it had left something — a wall, part of a building … But there was nothing; not a tree, not a stone, not a single vestige of the place. All my personal things were gone, my books, my notes, my clothes, George’s pictures, the medical stores, the van… every single thing completely and utterly vanished below that ghastly, piled-up chaos of broken hillside.

Jan touched my arm. ‘It’s no good looking at it,’ he said quietly. ‘Better come down to the auberge and have a drink.’

No good looking at it! That was true. ‘I never want to see the damned place again,’ I said savagely. ‘All the time, all that effort! You’d think if God…’ I stopped myself there and pushed my hand through my hair. Then I turned my back abruptly on the spot that had been my home and walked slowly down with Jan to the inn.

And that was where we met Julie, by the piled-up heaps of olives in the open space by the inn. She came towards us, walking slowly, her black hair hanging limp, her face white and strained. I was too dazed by the disaster of it all to notice then how desperately tired she was. I only knew I was glad she was there.

‘You’ve seen?’ she asked as she reached us.

I nodded, afraid to trust myself to speak.

‘I was hoping to catch you before you went up there, to break it to you gently. But you didn’t tell me you were coming back today.’ Her voice sounded flat and lifeless.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Two days ago; just after three o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘Thank God you weren’t in the house,’ I said. ‘Where were you? Did you see it?’

She nodded, her lip trembling. She was suddenly on the verge of tears. ‘I was at the caravan, turning out a drawer. George … George was doing a painting of the house. He was sitting at his easel down near the donkey stable. He wanted the house and the hills in shadow behind it. It was to be a surprise for you, Philip. A welcome-home present. And then…’ She closed her eyes and shook her head, the tears welling slowly, uncontrollably from between her tight-pressed eyelids.

‘You mean — George?’ I was too horrified to move.

She nodded slowly. ‘He was there — just below the house. I saw him.’ She opened her eyes, staring at me. ‘There was a sort of rumble … like thunder. I went to the door. I thought it might be another heavy downpour and I had some washing out. But it was clear and sunny. I heard George shout. He shouted to me and then he began to run and I looked up and saw the whole hillside pouring down. I couldn’t run. I just stood there and saw the first wave of rocks pour over the roadway, down to the house and then … then George fell and the whole ghastly landslide rolled over him. And then it hit him and… and suddenly he wasn’t there any more.’

I said something. I don’t know what it was, but she was suddenly clinging to me, sobbing hysterically. ‘It was horrible. Horrible. And I couldn’t do anything.’ She was trembling and all I could do was stroke her head the way you do a sick animal.

Gradually she stopped trembling and her grip on my arm relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was steadier, more controlled. ‘It happened two days ago. I should have got used to it by now.’ She straightened up and dried her eyes. ‘It was just that there was nobody …’ She blew her nose hard. ‘Ever since it happened I’ve just felt screwed up tight inside. And then, when I saw you …’ She shook her head as though trying to shake the picture out of her mind. ‘I’m all right now.’

‘Where are you staying — at the auberge?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘No. I’m still living in the caravan. I didn’t want to see any strangers. I wanted my own things round me. Oh, Philip — why did it have to be George? Why did he have to choose that afternoon?… He’d been painting up in the hills for days.’

I took her arm. She was still trembling. ‘I think perhaps some tea would help.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She nodded, clutching at the suggestion. ‘If you come back to the caravan I’ll make you some.’ As she turned, she came face-to-face with Jan. I don’t think she’d noticed him till then. The sight of a stranger seemed to brace her. ‘You must be Dr Kavan.’ Her voice was steadier as she held out her hand to him. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t a very pleasant welcome….’ She let her hand drop to her side.

He didn’t say anything and she turned quickly and led us down to the caravan.

The bus had been converted into two rooms with a shower bath and kitchenette between. She led us through into the front half, which was bedroom, living-room and studio combined and which merged into the driver’s seat. It had been George’s room. His things were everywhere, his clothes, his paints, the inevitable stack of canvases. It was impossible not to imagine that he was away painting somewhere in the hills and would return today or tomorrow or the next day.

I sat down, feeling dazed, thinking how senseless it was. There were hundreds of square miles of mountains. Why did it have to be here, in this exact spot? I looked up and stared out through the windscreen. The bus was parked facing towards Enfida. I was looking out on to a pattern of silver grey against the sky with the holes of the olive trees dark streaks in the shade. But the tranquillity of the scene only sharpened the memory of that broken slash of rubble lying over the Mission.

Julie came in then with the tea. ‘It’s no good brooding over it, Philip,’ she said in a small, taut voice. ‘We must think of the future, both of us. Think of the new Mission you’ll build.’

‘The new Mission?’ I stared at her. She didn’t understand. ‘There won’t be any new Mission,’ I said. ‘I’ve no money to start again.’

‘But weren’t you insured?’ Jan asked.

‘Against fire and theft. Not against an Act of God.’

‘But your Mission Society?’ His voice was suddenly tense. ‘Surely they will help — ‘

‘Why should they? I put up most of the capital. The Society isn’t really interested in a Mission here.’ And then I realised what was worrying him. ‘You’ll be all right,’ I added. ‘You’re a doctor. They need doctors out here in Morocco.’

He gave a nervous little shrug. ‘It’s not the same. Here I would have been lost to the world.’

We sat in silence after that, drinking tea, wrapped in our own thoughts. For each of us that landslide meant something different. And for each of us the future was uncertain.

As soon as I finished my tea, I got up and went out into the hard, bright sunshine, walking through the shade of the olives until I came to where they ceased abruptly and there was nothing but great, piled-up heaps of mud and stone. It rose higher than the trees, the surface of it drying and caking in the sunshine.

Insh’ Allah! I kicked out viciously at a clod of earth. That’s what they’d be saying, here in Enfida and up the valleys at Kef and Tala and all the other mountain villages. Like disease and poverty and the loss of crops through water, it was the will of Allah and you shrugged your shoulders and did nothing about it.

I clenched my fists. Somehow I must fight back; show them that disaster wasn’t something to accept, but a thing to struggle against.

But how? How?

I bowed my head then, praying to God for some guidance for the future, for some hope; praying that I’d have the strength to go on, that I wouldn’t have to turn my back on it and admit that I’d wasted five years of my life.

But the answer to one’s prayers comes from inside, not from outside, and I was too raw and hurt by the shock of what had happened to feel any revival of spirit.

A hand slipped under my arm and Julie was standing there beside me. She didn’t say anything and we stood there, looking at what the giant force of Nature had done to the hillside. Twenty thousand bulldozers couldn’t have done it in a year, and yet it had happened in a few moments — in less time than it had taken a man to try and run half the width of it.

The slide stretched like a giant scar from the valley bottom to the very summit of the sheer hillside.

‘You mustn’t be too bitter about it,’ Julie said. She had seen my face, knew what I was thinking.

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ I said.

‘Something will turn up.’

I stared at her, seeing her standing there, straight and firm-lipped, remembering what she had lost there under that landslide. I should have been comforting her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

She smiled and shook her head. ‘We’d better go down to the auberge now and see Madame Cast.’ Her voice was suddenly practical, though it trembled slightly. ‘I expect she’ll have rooms for you both.’

The news that I’d returned had spread and the open space outside the auberge was crowded with people. There were women there, as well as men — Arab women, their eyes watching us curiously from the safety of their veils; Berber women in their gaily-coloured cottons. The men, standing in little huddles by the heaped-up piles of black olives, carefully avoided my gaze. They were superstitious — curious but frightened; Allah had struck down the Dar el Mish’n and to talk to the Englishman would be unlucky. Men I had helped, whose sons I had trained as mechanics and joiners in my workshops, averted their gaze, afraid to speak to me, afraid to give me even a word of sympathy. They still believed in the Evil Eye. They wore charms to protect themselves against it — the charm of the Hand of Fatima. ‘Damn them all to hell!’ I muttered with sudden, pointless anger.

Julie’s grip on my arm tightened. ‘It’s not their fault,’ she said.

No, it wasn’t their fault. But what was the point of going on? Why bother to struggle against centuries of ignorance?

And then we were in the cold, dark interior of the auberge and Madame Cast was sitting, waiting for us, with her cat. She was a Frenchwoman who had married a German in the Legion. But, sitting there in her ugly, Victorian chair, there was no indication of a colourful background. The girl who had followed the Legion had been obliterated by the widow who for twenty years had run an auberge in Enfida and now she was like a huge-bodied female spider huddled in the centre of her web. She fed on gossip and her little eyes sparkled as she saw us. Both she and her cat were immense and shapeless, like the old carpet slippers she wore. Little grey eyes stared at us curiously out of the big, sagging face.

‘I have rooms ready for you, mes enfants,’ she said. She had known we must come to her.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ Julie said quickly. ‘Come and see me in the morning.’

Madame Cast watched her go and then she shouted to the Berber kitchen boy to bring us some wine. The room was big and dreary. Down one side ran the bar and in the corner, where Madame Cast sat, was a big white-tiled Austrian stove. The walls were decorated with discoloured posters of French holiday resorts and there was a rack of faded postcards.

The wine came and we sat and drank it, listened to Madame’s account of the disaster. Three farms had been destroyed as well as the Mission and the landslide had dammed up the river and flooded several olive groves. ‘And they blame me for the disaster?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Oui, monsieur.’

‘What else do they say?’ This old woman knew everything that was said in Enfida.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Does it matter, monsieur?’ She hesitated and her eyes softened. ‘Tell me, what are you going to do now?’

‘What are the people expecting me to do?’ I asked her.

‘They think you will leave Enfida and go back to your country across the sea. They say that it is the will of Allah.’

‘And if I stay?’

She folded her thick, work-stained hands in her lap. ‘They do not expect you to stay.’ There was silence between us for a moment and then she said, ‘Monsieur Frehel telephoned about an hour ago. He would like to see you.’

‘What’s he want to see me about?’ I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I expect, like everybody else, he is curious to know what you are going to do.’

So they were all waiting for me to admit defeat. Frehel was all right. We got on quite well together. But officially he didn’t approve of an English missionary at Enfida. A bitter sense of loneliness had come over me.

I got up then. I felt I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. It was so cold and dreary. And I wanted to think. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I told Jan.

It was brighter outside. A cool wind blew down off the mountains, but the sun was warm. I walked up through the place of the olives, conscious of the stares and whispers of the crowd. I walked steadily up the road until I came to where the landslide had spilled across it and the gang of workmen were cutting into it with their shovels. I turned off to the right then and began to climb up through the olive groves, climbing towards the top of the slide. Maybe the attitude of the Berbers of the mountain villages would be different. There were too many Arabs in Enfida. Tomorrow I would go up to the villages at the head of the ravine.

It was dusk when I got back to the auberge. The single electric light bulb under its white porcelain shade barely illuminated the big, empty room. A table had been laid for the two of us in a corner. I stopped to warm myself at the stove. The cat was sitting in Madame’s chair half-concealing a copy of La Vigie. A headline caught my eye: TANGIER YACHT MYSTERY — What Happened to Second Man? — Police Search for Missing Captain Intensified.

I pulled the paper out from beneath the recumbent cat and glanced quickly through the news story. It was date-lined Tangier… and it is now known that there was a second man on board the yacht. His identity is being kept secret, but the police state that the search for M. Roland Wade, captain and owner of the Gay Juliet, who disappeared from the Hotel Malabata in Tangier two days ago, has been intensified. They wish to question him about the fate of this second man. Wade stated, when he was rescued from the wreck, that he was the only person on board. It is thought that Wade, who is a short, dark-haired man, may have slipped across the International Frontier at some unguarded point into Spanish or French Morocco. A close watch is being kept on all forms of transport and a description has been … There followed a description of Jan as he was when he had shared my room at the Malabata and a brief account of how the yacht was wrecked in the gale. And then: Wade was last seen when he left the Hotel Malabata in the company of M. Philip Latham, the Englishman who rescued him from the sea. M. Latham is believed to have returned to French Morocco where he is living. Inquiries are being made by the Moroccan police.

I sat down in a chair and stared at that last line. So they would be coming here to question me! First the landslide, and now this! I dropped my head into my hands. It was too much. Everything seemed to have gone wrong. And then I was staring at that news story again, suddenly conscious of the significance of that word fate. They wish to question him about the fate of this second man. I wondered how they knew for certain that there had been two men on the boat. But it didn’t matter. The point was that they knew. I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry. The police had leapt to the same conclusion that I had.

I grabbed the paper again and ran up the stairs. It was inevitable. What else could they think? The man they thought was Wade had disappeared and his companion on the boat had never arrived. On the face of it, it could only add up to murder and now they’d go searching and questioning until they found him. I ran quickly from bedroom to bedroom. But they were all empty. Jan wasn’t there. I went back down the stairs and shouted for Madame. The kitchen door opened. ‘Dinner is almost ready,’ she said.

‘Where’s Dr Kavan?’ I asked her breathlessly.

‘He has gone out.’

‘Where? Did he say where?’ I got a grip on myself and added more calmly, ‘When did he leave?’

‘About half an hour ago.’ She paused and I was conscious of her beady eyes watching me curiously. ‘He has gone to see Monsieur Frehel.’

‘Frehel?’ Had the police traced Jan already? Had they guessed at the truth? Oh God! What a mess! And then I pulled myself together and asked Madame to bring me a fine a I’eau. They’d discover that he was the man who’d come ashore from the wreck. I crossed the room and sat down at the table that had been laid for us. They’d think he’d taken Wade’s identity for fear of being accused of killing the man. What else could they think? I rubbed my hand across my eyes. Poor devil! And there was his wife, waiting in Tangier. She would be brought into it, too. I tried desperately to think of a way out for him, but it was no good. The only hope was to tell them the truth. It would involve Vareau, but that couldn’t be helped. They would have to be told the truth.

Madame brought me my drink and settled herself in her chair, holding the cat in her lap, stroking it gently and watching me with a gossip-greedy look in her small eyes. ‘Alors, monsieur — about this affair in Tangier. I see your name is mentioned in the paper.’

But I was saved her cross-examination by the arrival of a car. It was a Frenchman wanting a room for the night. He was a man of medium height and he wore a grey felt hat and a raincoat over a light suit. I didn’t really take much notice of him then. He was one of those men who fit quietly into their surroundings. He might have been a commercial traveller. Madame took him up to show him his room and I sat staring down at the paper, not reading it, just wishing I was done with the whole business.

And then Jan came in. ‘I had to go down and see the Civil Controller,’ he said.

‘What happened?’ I asked quickly. ‘What did he want? Does he know who you are?’

‘Of course. I showed him my papers and we talked — ‘

‘I don’t mean that. Does he know you’re the man who posed as Wade in Tangier?’

‘No. Why should he?’ He seemed surprised.

‘Why? Because the police…’ But of course, they couldn’t know all that yet. ‘Have you seen this?’ I thrust the paper across to him.

He picked it up and I heard the quick intake of his breath, saw the knuckles of his hand whiten as his grip tightened on the pages. He dropped into the chair beside me. ‘How do they know I was on the boat? They can’t know. It was dark when I joined Gay Juliet and we sailed in the early hours of the morning, before it was light. I’m certain I wasn’t followed.’ He didn’t say anything more for a moment as he read the whole story through. Then he put the paper down and looked at me. ‘This is how it started before,’ he said. ‘There was a lot of publicity about my being taken off secret work, that was how they knew I was worth bringing back to Czechoslovakia. Once the International Police reveal my name to the newspapers …” He gave a little sigh and shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. ‘They’ll be coming here to question you, I suppose.’

I nodded.

‘What are you going to do? Frehel wants to see you in the morning. At ten o’clock. He asked me to let you know.’ He stared at me. ‘What are you going to tell him?’

‘The truth,’ I said.

‘No. You can’t do that. Not yet.’ His voice was urgent, his grip on my arm like a vice. ‘I need time.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said. ‘The truth is your only help.’

‘How do you mean?’ He had completely failed to understand the implication of the story.

But when he asked me to put my thoughts into words, I couldn’t do it. He didn’t see it the way I did — the way the police must see it. Perhaps it was better if he didn’t. That way his denial would be more convincing. And then he said something that put the thing out of my mind for the moment. He said, ‘Philip. I want you to do something for me. I want you to confirm what I have just told Frehel — what you arranged back there in Tangier. I want you to tell the police when they come that I flew out from England direct to Casablanca.’

‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘They’ve only to check at Paris or London.’

‘I know. But I still want you to do it. All I need is four days. In four days I can get down to Foum-Skhira.’

‘Foum-Skhira?’ I stared at him.

‘I have to see Caid Hassan d’Es-Skhira. It’s about Kasbah Foum.’

‘What’s Kasbah Foum got to do with you?’ I demanded. And then I was suddenly angry. All the bitterness of the last few hours was concentrated on this one thing. ‘You never intended to work at the Mission, did you?’ I accused him. ‘It was just an excuse. You used my need of a doctor — ‘ But I stopped there. How could he have known then about Wade and Kasbah Foum? I was tired and my mind was confused.

He leaned forward, his hand on my arm again. ‘Please, Philip. Listen. I have a proposition — ‘ He stopped abruptly as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him.

It was the Frenchman. He stood at the foot of the stairs for an instant, staring at us. Then he went over to the table in the far corner.

Jan picked up the paper again. I saw him glance several times at the newcomer. Then he leaned towards me. ‘We’ve got to talk this over. There’s something I haven’t told you.’

But Madame came in then and I motioned him to be silent. She went through into the kitchen and for a while the only sound was the ticking of an alarm clock somewhere behind the bar. The darkness and the dreariness of the room, combined with Jan’s tenseness, began to get on my nerves. The room had an unreal quality. It looked like a stage set, with its bar and its white-tiled stove and the faded posters on the flimsy wooden walls.

The soup arrived, and then Madame waddled in, carrying a special bottle of wine carefully in her two fat hands. She took it across to the Frenchman. Monsieur Bilvidic she called him, and her throaty voice smarmed over the hard syllables of his name as she bent obsequiously over his table. Evidently he wasn’t just an ordinary traveller. He was someone of importance — an official. His face was pale, almost sallow, and there were little pouches under his eyes, like half spectacles on either side of his thin, sharp nose.

Once our eyes met. It was a quick, appraising glance, and it left me with a faint feeling of hollowness in the pit of my stomach.

Madame had seated herself by the stove again. For a while she concentrated on her food, but once or twice she glanced in my direction. At length she said, ‘I was asking you, monsieur, about that affair in Tangier.’ And when I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘You’ve read the paper, haven’t you? What happened to this man after he left the Hotel Malabata with you?’

I glanced quickly across at the Frenchman. But he was concentrating on his food. He might not have heard her question. ‘Until I read the paper I hadn’t realised the police were looking for Wade,’ I told her.

‘But what happened to him?’

‘That’s something I shall have to tell Monsieur Frehel in the morning,’ I said. A cold sweat had broken out on my forehead. The man was concentrating too much on his food. He must be listening.

But Madame was persistent. She sat there, feeding the cat pieces of fish in her fingers and asking questions. And because I couldn’t just sit there and refuse to say anything, I told her about how I had seen the wreck and brought Wade back to my room at the hotel, all the things, in fact, that the International Police already knew. And whilst I was talking I was conscious of Jan’s growing nervousness.

The meal was over at last and I got to my feet, excusing myself by saying I was tired. Jan rose, too, and Madame saw us to the foot of the stairs. ‘Dormez bien, mes enfants.’ Her little beady eyes smiled at me maliciously.

We went upstairs to the narrow landing that ran the length of the inn. ‘Who was that man?’ Jan asked.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I answered.

‘You mean — ‘

‘We’ll know in the morning,’ I said and pushed open the door of my room.

‘Philip. I want to talk to you about Kasbah Foum.’

‘Oh, damn Kasbah Foum!’ I said. ‘I’m tired now.’

And I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

What did he want to keep talking about Kasbah Foum for? Hadn’t he got enough problems without trying to involve himself in something that concerned people like Kostos and Ali d’Es-Skhira? I was thinking of the Frenchman back there in the bar, talking to Madame, learning all the gossip of the place.

I sat down on the bed and stared miserably round the room. It was a sordid little box of a place with a big, brass-railed double bed that sagged in the middle and the bare minimum of furniture — a wash-stand, a tin slop pail, a chest of drawers, a wooden chair and a small built-in cupboard. The flaking paint patterned the walls with a stipple of little shadows cast by the naked electric light bulb. I shivered in the cold that struck up from the concrete floor.

I had a quick wash and went to bed. Somewhere out in the darkness a tam-tam throbbed, accompanying the queer, wailing cry of women singing. It went on and on, and then a donkey began to bray, a harsh, sobbing note as though it were slowly being strangled. I heard Bilvidic come to bed and then the auberge settled down to sleep and the only sound was the tam-tam beating out there in the night.

Gradually the moonlight filtered into the room. A little wind had got up and I listened to it moaning round the galvanised iron roof, searching for cracks in the old building.

And then I heard a movement in the passage outside. The catch of the door scraped as the handle was turned and the door opened and Jan’s voice whispered, ‘Are you asleep, Philip?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

He came in and shut the door gently behind him. ‘Mind if I put the light on?’ There was a click and I blinked my eyes.

‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. I wanted to show you something.’ He came and sat on the bed. He was still dressed and he had the raincoat he’d bought in Marrakech wrapped tightly round him. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. His manner was quiet as though he’d made up his mind about something.

‘Well?’

‘I’m leaving for the south tomorrow. I would like you to come with me. No,’ he added quickly. ‘Don’t say anything. Have a look at this first.’ He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Please. Examine it.’

It was one of those stiff linen envelopes, but it had been softened and creased with age. It was damp, too, and the remains of the broken seal were indecipherable. Inside was a bulky document to which had been attached a note in French scrawled on a sheet of cheap notepaper that was torn and dirty along the creases where it had been folded. I sat up in bed and twisted round so that the light fell across my shoulder on to the document. It opened out into a stiff sheet of parchment covered with Arab writing. The ink was faded with age, but the words kasbah foum, written in capitals, caught my eye. And then, farther down, I saw the name Marcel Duprez. The name occurred several times and the document was signed Caid El Hassan d’Es-Skhira, and some sort of seal had been affixed.

‘But this is the document Kostos wanted,’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes.’

‘You crazy fool!’ I said, staring up at him. ‘Why didn’t you let him have it? If you’d given it to him — ‘

‘Kasbah Foum belongs to me.’

But. I didn’t believe him. How could it belong to him? ‘You took those deeds from Wade,’ I said. ‘Wade was acting for Ali and you took them — ‘

‘No,’ he said. ‘Wade never had the deeds. He offered me five hundred pounds if I’d give them to him and renounce my claim to the place. But I wouldn’t sell. Kasbah Foum is mine.’ He said it fiercely, possessively.

I pushed my hand across my eyes. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘How can this place belong to you? You’ve never been in Morocco before. Land like that isn’t bought and sold — ‘

‘Those deeds were given me by Marcel Duprez. He was the man I told you about in Marrakech, the man who died in that cellar in Essen.’ He stared at me, frowning angrily. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? Why do you think Wade agreed to take me on his boat? How do you think we met in the first place? I didn’t contact Wade. He contacted me.’ He pointed to the note pinned to the document. ‘If you still don’t believe me, take a look at that note. It was written by Marcel Duprez to the lawyers just before he died.’

I smoothed out the tattered note attached to the document. It was written in French in a shaky hand and addressed to Lavin, Roche et Lavin, of Rouen:

Dear Monsieur Roche,

The bearer of this note is Dr Jan Kavan, who is here with me in this abominable town of Essen. In the event of my death, he will come to you after the war. You will give him the document relating to Kasbah fount in French Morocco. This note you will regard as a codicil to my will. Being unable at this time to write to you direct, I hereby instruct you to ignore any illegality there may be in this method of making my wishes known to you and to carry out these instructions. Dr Kavan knows that Caid Hassan’s confirmation of this bequest is necessary to substantiate his claim to the ownership of Kasbah Fount and he holds the necessary letter to Caid Hassan, which he will show to you on request.

The note was signed Marcel Duprez and dated 22 September 1944. So the Marcel Duprez who had fought at Foum-Skhira with the Legion and the man who had died in a cellar at Essen were the same! And Kasbah Foum, subject to Caid’s confirmation, belonged to Jan. ‘But if you’re so interested in the place, why didn’t you get your title to it confirmed before?’ I asked him.

‘That’s what I should have done. It’s what I promised Marcel. As soon as the Allies arrived in Essen and I was released, I went to Rouen. I saw Monsieur Roche and he gave me the deeds. But — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. ‘There was so much to do in Czechoslovakia. I returned to Skoda and there was my research work, and then Karen and I were married. To be the owner of a little patch of desert somewhere in Morocco — ‘ He gave a short laugh. ‘It was absurd, you know. Even if there was silver there … I had plenty of money and I was happy. I put the deeds away and forgot all about them. Also I forgot about my promise. The Berbers meant nothing to me.’ He paused and then added, ‘But afterwards, when I was in England, I found those deeds among some papers Karen smuggled out to me. And then it wasn’t absurd any more. It was all I owned in the world.’

He was staring at me and his voice trembled slightly with the effort of trying to make me understand. ‘When you have no country — nothing … to be the owner of a piece of land becomes desperately important. It’s a refuge, something to dream about. I remembered my promise then and I wrote to Caid Hassan.’

‘And he confirmed your title?’

‘No. He didn’t reply to my letter. And then, a few months later, just after I’d decided to get out of England and had answered your advertisement — Wade arrived. I knew then that my letter had never reached the Caid, but had been sent on to his son, Ali.’

‘Wade told you that?’

‘No, no, of course not. But I knew, because of what Marcel had told me. Marcel loved the Berber people. He gave his whole life, and his health, to them.’ He shifted his position, leaning towards me. ‘Listen, Philip. There’s an ancient, ruined city at Kasbah Foum. That was why Marcel was interested in the place. And it was whilst he was doing excavation work there that he came upon the entrance of some old mine workings. It was blocked and he never had a chance to open it up because, shortly after he discovered it, there was a landslide and it was buried, just as your Mission is buried here. But there is a local legend that silver was once mined at Kasbah Foum. That was what worried him when he was dying.’

‘Why should it?’ I asked.

‘The terms of those deeds are rather peculiar. Whoever inherited from Marcel had to get his title confirmed by the Caid and ownership registered with the Sultan’s government. If no new ownership were confirmed, then when Caid Hassan died, Kasbah Foum would belong to his son, Ali. Marcel wanted to prevent that. In his view Ali was a fanatic — not interested in the welfare of his people, only in fighting the French. He was afraid that if Ali discovered the mine and developed it, or sold it, he would use those funds to buy arms. At all costs he wanted to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.’

‘And he made you promise to get your title to the place confirmed by the old Caid before he died?’

‘Yes.’ He stared down at the deeds lying on the blankets in front of him. ‘I thought it was just a whim — you know how people build things up in their minds when they’re feverish. And back there at Skoda after the war it all seemed so remote and unreal.’ He looked up at me suddenly and said, ‘But it’s real enough now — now that I know Ali is trying to get those deeds. When Wade came to me in England, he said he had seen the lawyers in Rouen and they’d told him a man named White had been making enquiries — ‘ He stopped, his head on one side. ‘What was that?’ His voice shook a little.

‘It’s only in the wind,’ I said.

But he got up quietly and went to the door and pulled it open. There was nothing there. He stood listening for a moment and then shut it. ‘That man,’ he said. ‘That Frenchman. He’s a member of the security police. I know he is.’ He started pacing up and down. ‘Karen and Kasbah Foum — they’re all I’ve got in the world.. And they’re both here in North Africa. I’ve got to stay in North Africa.’ He was talking to himself, gesturing urgently. He looked suddenly quite wild with his black hair standing on end.

He swung round abruptly and came back to the bed, leaning down and catching hold of my arm. ‘Don’t tell them the truth tomorrow. Give me a week. A week is all I need. And you’ve got to come with me. You know the people. You speak the language. We’ll see the old Caid. Maybe there is silver there. If so, you’ll get your Mission. I promise you. You’ll have all the money you need. It’s what Marcel wanted; exactly what he wanted. I was to take what I needed and the rest was to go to the Berber people — hospitals and schools.’ He stopped abruptly, staring at me, panting slightly with the effort of his sudden outburst. Then he picked up the deeds and thrust them into their envelope. ‘Think it over.’ His voice had steadied. ‘A few days is all I ask. Afterwards — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders. He stared at me a moment as though trying to will me to agree, and then, when I still didn’t say anything, he crossed to the door. ‘Good night,’ he said and switched out the light.

‘Good night.’

The door closed and I was alone again. I lay in the darkness, thinking about it all, trying to make up my mind what to do. But my brain wouldn’t concentrate and gradually I fell asleep through sheer exhaustion.

The Berber boy didn’t wake me until after nine and when I went into the bar room, Bilvidic was already there, sitting at the same table, writing. He looked up as I entered, murmured ‘Bonjour’ and went back to his notes. Jan came in a few minutes later and we breakfasted in silence. Only once did he say anything and then he leaned close to me and whispered, ‘What have you decided?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. I hadn’t decided anything.

At ten minutes to ten Bilvidic put his notebook away and came over to me. ‘I believe you have an appointment with Monsieur le Controlleur at ten,’ he said. ‘Since I am also going to see him, perhaps you would care to come in my car.’

I thanked him and got up, conscious of Jan watching me nervously. He went out to his Citroen and as he drove me down through Enfida he talked of nothing more alarming than mountain plants. He was a keen horticulturist.

The administration block of Civil Control was a low, brick building and the offices opened off a single long passage. The Tribunal was sitting that morning and the whole length of the passage was crowded with indigenes from the country round. As I walked down to the Controller’s office I was conscious of a sudden hush.

The men stopped talking and stared at me curiously. Many of them I knew, but they looked away as I approached.

And then suddenly an old man stood in front of me. It was the chef de village from Tala. He touched me and kissed my hand, bowing formally, and then in a clear voice he welcomed me back to Enfida and expressed his deep distress at what had happened. I caught his hand and gripped it, and his old eyes smiled at me behind the glasses. ‘We understand each other,’ he said quietly. ‘You will have help from the villages of the Ravine if you build your house again.’

‘There are few, like you, who understand,’ I said. And I thanked him and we parted. But somehow the morning had changed completely now. I felt suddenly warm inside and full of vigour.

I was shown into an empty office and though Frehel kept me waiting almost twenty minutes, I didn’t mind. I was thinking that if I had the villages of the Ravine with me — the very ravine where the disaster had happened — then it was worth fighting to start again. And then I began thinking about Kasbah Foum. Julie had said something would turn up. Maybe this was it….

The door opened and Frehel came in. He was a tall, rather stooped man with lined, leathery features. He looked more like a professor than an administrator and, as always, his Civil Control uniform looked oddly out of place on his long, loose-jointed figure. He shook my hand and apologised for keeping me waiting. And then he began talking about the disaster and about the Mission. ‘A terrible tragedy, Latham.’ He shook his head and clicked his tongue. ‘Will you tell Mademoiselle Corrigan how sad I am about the death of her brother. Terrible! And he was a fine painter.’ And then he wanted to know what my plans were and I began to think that that was the only reason he had asked me to come to his office. ‘And this Dr Kavan?’ he asked. ‘You went to Tangier to meet him, I believe?’

I nodded, conscious that there was suddenly more interest in his voice, a look of curiosity in his eyes. He hesitated, his hands in his pockets, rattling his keys. Then he said, ‘I am sorry to trouble you at a time like this, but I have a member of the Surete here who has come to ask you some questions. It is about something that happened in Tangier.’ He opened the door for me. ‘If you will come through to my office — ‘

Bilvidic was seated beside Frehel’s desk, tapping his teeth with a silver pencil. ‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur tells me you have already met,’ Frehel murmured. Bilvidic got up and brought a chair for me. Frehel seated himself at the desk. He was obviously curious and his eyes glanced quickly at each of us in turn.

Bilvidic turned his chair so that he faced me. ‘I think you understand, monsieur, why I am here.’

I nodded.

He produced a pack of American cigarettes and handed them round, ‘You were telling Madame last night how you rescued this Monsieur Wade from the wreck and took him back to your hotel.’ His manner was friendly, his tone almost conversational. ‘Would you kindly repeat the story so that I can check it against my notes. I would like every detail, if you please. You understand, of course, that this man has disappeared completely?’

‘I read the newspaper story,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Alors, monsieur.’

So I went through the whole sequence of events from the moment I had sighted the yacht trying to make for the harbour at Tangier. He had his notebook in his hand and a sheaf of typewritten pages, and he constantly referred to these, checking my story with neat little ticks in the margin. He didn’t interrupt me until I came to the loss of the passport and the odd behaviour of the patrone at the Hotel Malabata. ‘Un moment, monsieur. The patrone says only that Wade had mislaid his passport.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said, and I explained what had actually happened. I was sweating a little and the palms of my hands were moist. I was reaching the difficult part and I found I still hadn’t really made up my mind.

‘Can you explain why the patrone should attempt to retain Wade’s passport illegally?’

‘Yes,’ I said, seeing an opportunity to gain time. ‘I think he had been bribed by a man called Kostos.’

‘Kostos?’

‘He’s a Greek,’ I said. ‘He used to be involved in smuggling,‘but now — ‘

‘Yes, yes. I know about Kostos.’ His tone was impatient. ‘But what is he to do with Wade?’

‘He came to see him at the hotel.’

‘Ah, out. I wished to ask you about that. We are curious about this Greek. He left Tangier suddenly two days ago. I think we trace him to Marrakech, but we are not — ‘

‘To Marrakech?’ I stared at him. Had Jan been right after all?

‘Oui, to Marrakech.’ Bilvidic nodded. ‘We believe he was accompanied by a notorious agent provocateur.’

‘You mean Ali d’Es-Skhira?’

The name slipped out and he pounced on it. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Kostos mentioned the name that time he came to see Wade in my room,’ I said quickly to cover myself.

‘Ah, yes. Will you tell me exactly what Kostos said?’

I gave him the gist of it without mentioning Kasbah Foum. And whilst I was talking, I was thinking that it must be true, the whole incredible story that Jan had told me. Ali d’Es-Skhira would never return to Morocco and risk being arrested by the French unless the matter was urgent. There was no doubt in my mind that the pair of them were headed for Foum-Skhira. It was this that finally decided me.

‘And now, monsieur,’ Bilvidic said when I had finished, ‘let us go back to your departure from the hotel. The patrone has withheld Wade’s passport and you have ordered the driver of the taxi to take you to the British Consulate. You were going to make a protest, eh?’

I nodded.

‘But you did not go there, monsieur. Why? Where do you go after you leave the hotel?’

‘Wade changed his mind,’ I said. ‘He decided not to go to the Consulate after all. He asked me to drop him in the Zocco Grande.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. I was leaving Tangier by the evening train. I never saw him again.’

He glanced down at the typewritten notes. ‘This would be about fifteen-thirty hours, eh? And your train did not leave until twenty-one thirty. Would you please tell me what you did during the rest of the day?’

I filled in as best I could. And then, suddenly, he said, ‘Why did you book two berths on the wagon-lit?’

In all my concern that he might know about my visit to the airport, I had forgotten all about the problem of explaining that extra berth. I improvised quickly: I had booked the extra sleeper for the man I had gone to Tangier to meet and afterwards I had found a letter waiting for me at the British Post Office saying that he was flying direct to Casa and would I meet him there. I think my hesitation could only have been fractional, for he didn’t seem to have noticed it. ‘And the man you went to meet was this Dr Kavan?’

I nodded.

‘And that is the man who is here now, the man you were dining With at the auberge last night? You met him at Casa?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Bon.’ He seemed relieved. He looked across at Frehel. ‘At least there is no mystery about the disappearance of this Dr Kavan from the boat. The British security officers have made an error. He was never on the boat.’ He chuckled, and then checked himself as though remembering he was on official business. ‘In fact, there is no mystery at all. There are not two men on the boat, only one. There remains only the disappearance of this man Wade.’ He glanced down at his notes, and then went back over my statement of what Kostos had said on the occasion he had come to the hotel. I knew it was all right then. Jan was clear for the moment.

We went over several points and then finally he sat back and lit another cigarette. ‘You say you have checked Dr Kavan’s papers?’ he asked Frehel suddenly.

The Civil Controller nodded.

‘And they are in order?’

‘Oui, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.’

‘Bon.’ He looked across at me. ‘What do you know about this doctor, monsieur?’

‘Not very much,’ I said, keeping a tight hold on my voice. ‘He’s a Czech refugee.’

‘Is that all he has told you about himself?’

I didn’t say anything and he shrugged his shoulders as though glad not to have to go further into the matter. ‘Alors, monsieur — the statement…’

It was almost midday before the statement was typed. When I had signed it, he drove me back to the auberge himself. ‘Au revoir, monsieur,’ he said as I got out. ‘I am going back to Casablanca now.’ His hard, grey eyes looked at me fixedly. ‘There is nothing you wish to alter?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘You realise that it will all be checked?’

I nodded.

‘Bien, monsieur. We will hope there are no inaccuracies, eh?’ He gave me a thin-lipped smile. And then he asked me if I should be leaving Enfida during the next few days.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I quite understand. In view of the catastrophe …’ He gave a little shrug. ‘But if you do leave, monsieur, I should be grateful if you would inform. Monsieur Frehel and give him your new address. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He nodded again and turned the Citroen in a tight circle, disappearing in a cloud of dust down the road towards the bridge. I turned and went into the auberge, but Jan wasn’t there. I called Madame out of the kitchen and she told me that Julie had arrived shortly after I had left. She and Jan had gone off together.

I went up the mountain road then and cut down to the caravan. They must have been watching the track, for they both came out to meet me. But then Jan stopped and Julie came on alone. She looked very pretty with her black hair hanging down over her orange shirt. She was wearing slacks. She looked slender and graceful and cool. ‘Is it all right?’ she asked. Her voice sounded nervous and I knew Jan must have explained the situation to her. I didn’t say anything and she took my arm. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ And then she added, ‘Don’t keep him waiting, Philip. It’s important to him.’

‘All right,’ I said. And I called out to Jan and told him he needn’t worry for the moment.

It was extraordinary. The man seemed suddenly to come to life. It was as though I had released a spring inside him. He caught hold of my hand and his grip was so tight it hurt. I’ll never forget this, Philip. I’ll never forget it.’ He was like a man reprieved. ‘What decided you? All through breakfast this morning … I wanted to get a decision out of you, but that man Bilvidic was sitting there. What decided you?’

‘Kostos was in Marrakech two days ago,’ I said.

‘So, I was right. How do you know this?’

‘Bilvidic told me. And Ali d’Es-Skhira is with him.’

Sitting in the caravan over a large cognac I told them about the interview. And when I had finished Jan said, ‘Well, that settles it. We slip out of Enfida tonight. Julie says if we leave shortly after midnight we’d be across the pass by dawn. By tomorrow night, if we drive hard, we can be at Foum-Skhira.’

‘We’ll need a car,’ I said.

It was Julie who answered. ‘We’ll take the bus.’ She was smiling a little sadly. ‘I don’t want to stay here — not alone. And there’s no hotel south of Ouarzazate; not until you get to Zagora, and you aren’t going there.’

I sat and looked at her. I thought I ought to say ‘No’ — that it was stupid for her to get mixed up in it. But seeing the way she looked — keyed up and excited — I thought maybe it was a good idea. It would take her mind off George’s death.

There were a great many things to be done if we were to start that night — stores to get and the bus to be literally dug out. We agreed that Jan and I should feed at the auberge and retire to bed there in the ordinary way. We would slip out of Enfida at night, just in case.

It seemed a long evening, sitting there in that dreary bar room, talking with Madame, watching the Arabs who guarded the olive piles at night drift in and out for coffee. But at last it was ten o’clock and Madame was seeing us to the door to the stairs. ‘Dormez bien, mes enfants. Dormez bien.’ Her deep, throaty voice was like a benediction and I heaved a sigh of relief. From the window of my room I saw that a light rain was falling. The night was black and quiet.

Two hours later we slipped out by the terrace and the gate leading on to the road. Julie had the old bus waiting for us just below the road. It was exactly twelve as we drove down the winding road and across the bridge and up through the deserted street of Enfida on the Marrakech road. We left the olive trees behind, and the road and the red earth of the plain stretched ahead of us in the headlights. It was like that for hour after hour, except that the plain gave way to mountainsides that loomed like dark shadows on either side of us as the road began to climb.

The first grey light of dawn found us grinding up the hairpin bends to the top of the pass. Julie was at the wheel and the bus swayed heavily on the incessant bends, the wheels skidding in the loose slush of melted snow that covered the road. And then at last we were at the top and there were the gaunt pylons of the teleferrique marching like Wellsian monsters through the cleft in the mountains. We drew in beside a big stone notice — tizi n tichka, alt. 2.250 m., and below were recorded the Army units who had slaved to build the road through the pass.

We were at the top of the High Atlas. We were astride the shining white barrier of the mountains that hide the strange, desert lands of the south. I had never crossed them, but I knew that beyond lay a different world, a world of kasbahs and dusty palmeries set in a land of black stone hills, rounded with age. And beyond those black hills of the Anti-Atlas was nothing — only the limitless wastes of the Sahara, a sea of sand.

We sat there and stared at the pale dawn sky ahead, conscious of a sense of the unknown, as though we were on a peak looking out across a strange sea. I was conscious, too, of a stillness within myself, and within my two companions. I glanced at Jan. His face was tense, his blue eyes fixed with a sort of desperate eagerness. He stood there upon what was for him the threshold of a Promised Land — the thing he dreamed of for himself and his wife, Karen — his last chance of a refuge from the nightmare in which he had lived.

The sun rose and touched the first of the mountain tops. Without a word Julie started the engine and we began the long run down to Ouarzazate. Nobody spoke. Our eyes were fixed on the sky ahead and the road winding down through the mountains. Somewhere, down there among the black stone hills, was Kasbah Foum.