Chapter 6
T hey left Omar’s home with Alessandro holding the books under one arm. Omar had promised to be in touch within a day with a plan about their “friend in Fes.” Melody had no idea how far Fes was from Casablanca, but if the trip from Tangier was any indication, travel within Morocco was hard and long. Even the well-travelled route between Tangier and Casablanca had been on little more than a dirt track. The thought of getting back in another carriage to spend even more days travelling was almost more than Melody could stand.
Of course, she knew that she always had the option of staying behind in Casablanca if Rat and Alessandro had to travel within Morocco. She could imagine nothing that would please Alessandro more, probably Rat as well. As much as she loathed the idea of taking to the road again so quickly, the thought of staying behind alone with Fatima was even less appealing. So, Melody resigned herself to the possibility of another long, arduous trip.
While they retraced their route back to the carriage, Alessandro and Rat chatted about nothing in particular and Melody observed the chaotic commerce taking place all around her.
Just as they were passing the live chicken vendor, Alessandro yelled out, “Waqd!”
Melody turned her head to see him holding the hand of a young boy who was squirming in his grip.
“What happened?” Rat asked.
“This little street rat tried to pick my pocket,” Alessandro explained. Looking more closely at the protesting child, he said, “And to make it worse, I believe it is the same vagabond who I saved from a thrashing, or worse, yesterday.”
“Which child? The one who was accused of stealing the bread?” Melody asked.
“The very same. But this time I will not be as kind.”
“Monsieur, I do not steal from you,” the boy said in surprisingly good English. “I was trying to get your attention.”
Alessandro adopted a look of extreme scepticism. “Trying to get my attention? Why, so you could thank me for saving your skin the other day?”
The boy lowered his voice, “Non, Monsieur. A man was following you and I saw him take out a knife. I remembered your good deed to me and did not want him to hurt you.”
Seemingly unmoved by this explanation, Alessandro retained his grip on the child and asked, “And where might this man be now?”
The boy pointed up ahead. “When you yelled at me and turned, he changed his mind and moved ahead. I swear, Monsieur.”
Rat looked at the young boy. “How old are you?”
The boy shrugged. “I do not know, Monsieur. Maybe eight.”
There was something about the young boy that was heartbreakingly familiar to Rat. He noted how scrawny the child was and recognised the hungry look that suffused his skinny face. Without even having to ask, Rat knew the boy’s story. He had lived the boy’s story. Rat remembered when he had first met Wolf in Whitechapel on the day he tried to pick the then thief-taker’s pocket. He remembered the grace he was shown when Wolf gave the orphaned boy work instead of turning him into the nearest constable. That work helped him to buy food for himself and his sister, Melody.
Guessing that Alessandro did not seem to be inclined to be so generous, Rat said, “Let us take the boy with us into the carriage and deal with him there. If he is telling the truth, we need to get more information from him about the man he claims was about to attack you. And if he is lying…” he paused. “If he is lying, then he is an orphaned child who is starving and cannot be blamed for doing what he has to in order to feed himself.”
Immediately, Melody understood the root of Rat’s compassion. She smiled at him. Alessandro did not know enough of Rat and Melody’s origins to understand. However, he had no desire to hash this out further in the middle of the Medina and, instead, keeping a tight hold on the boy’s arm he began walking towards where they had left the carriage. It was a short walk, and soon enough, they had bundled the boy in and were on their way back to Anfa.
“Let us start with the basics,” Alessandro said sternly. “What is your name?”
“Mustafa, Monsieur.
Wary of projecting too much of his childhood onto Mustafa but also cognisant that he had at least some shared experiences with the boy that the wealthy, aristocratic Alessandro couldn’t possibly understand, Rat asked far more gently than the other man, “Are your parents living, Mustafa?”
Suddenly, the boy looked very sad and shook his head. “Baba died when I was a baby. Mama died just before Ramadan. She had been sick for some time.”
From what Rat knew about Islamic culture, Ramadan had been more than two months ago, so the boy had been fending for himself for several weeks.
Reflecting again on his own experience, Rat asked with concern, “Mustafa, do you have any brothers or sisters back in the Medina?”
The boy shook his head in the negative.
Alessandro was impatient. “Now that we know the boy’s life history, I would like to return to the matter at hand. If you want me to believe your story, Mustafa, you might start by describing the man you claim you saw about to attack me.”
The boy thought for a few moments, then said, “He was a tall, thin man, with what do you call the thing a man grows above his nose?”
“A moustache?” Melody suggested.
“Yes, that is it.”
“Alright then. A tall thin man with a moustache. That is not very helpful. Was he young or old? Moroccan?” Alessandro demanded.
“He was not a Moroccan,” Mustafa said with certainty. “Although he was wearing a djellaba, his fair hair made him seem European. I do not think he was too old—perhaps a little older than you, Monsieur.” This was directed at Alessandro.
“And why exactly were you so sure he was going to attack me?”
“I saw him follow you to the riad and wait for you to leave. He stayed just close enough behind you for some time; then suddenly, he moved closer. It was when the Mademoiselle and the other Monsieur,” at this, he looked at Rat, “they moved just a little ahead of you because the street was narrow. Then, he moved closer all of a sudden, and I saw him pull his hand out of his sleeve, and he had a knife in it.”
Something in Mustafa’s story suddenly puzzled Melody. “If you saw all this, you must have been following us as well. Why?”
Mustafa didn’t answer for a moment. Then, in a quiet little voice, he admitted, “When I saw you come into the Medina, Monsieur, I remembered your kindness to me. I wanted to ask you if I could be your servant.”
“My servant?” Alessandro asked in amusement. “And what exactly did you think that a skinny little boy like you could do for me?”
“I thought that I could take messages for you. Whatever you wanted. I know the Medina well. I speak English, Arabic, and some French,” the boy said with pride.
“You do speak English very well,” Melody said. “How is that?”
“My mother spoke English, and she taught me. She told me that one day if I could speak it well, I could take a boat to England and work for the King.”
“For the King?” Alessandro said in a gently mocking tone. “Well, your English is good enough, I will give you that.” Then, in a kind but firm voice, he said, “I am not the King, but perhaps you could be of some assistance.”
Back at Fatima’s home, Alessandro sent Mustafa off with Ahmed to get bathed and fed. Meanwhile, Alessandro, Melody, and Rat retired to the salon.
“Do you believe the boy?” Melody asked Alessandro.
“About the man with the knife? I think I do. His description was too specific. Unless the child is an expert liar, it had the ring of truth about it.”
“I agree,” Rat said. “But then that raises a much larger question: who was trying to attack you and why?”
Alessandro didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rang the bell, and a servant arrived almost immediately with a tray of more refreshments. As the morning had progressed, the day had got much hotter, and it had been particularly stifling in the Medina. Given the heat, Melody was glad to see that tall glasses of orange juice had replaced the mint tea that seemed to accompany every Moroccan meal. She happily drank more than half her glass before placing it on the table in front of her.
After taking some large sips from his glass, Alessandro said, “It seems that my presence here may have stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
“Surely your role with the Secret Service Bureau has not been compromised,” Rat said anxiously.
“When you have worked in the shadows of European intrigue for as long as I have, you find that others in the same field might have their suspicions.” Seeing the increasing concern on Rat’s face, he continued, “I am not saying that they know exactly what I do for the British Government, but those who also trade in secrets often recognise similar interests in others.”
This was an odd and vague answer, Melody thought. Wasn’t the whole point of conducting covert espionage that no one knew your true function? To hear Alessandro explain it, one might almost think that he belonged to an elite club whose members had a secret signal they flashed to identify themselves to their brethren.
Melody decided to put aside her scepticism at his story, at least for now. If a European man had followed them into the Medina and had intended to stab Alessandro, it seemed likely that something about their reason for being in Morocco sat behind it. This did not seem like a random attack or even a robbery attempt. If the man had followed them to Omar’s home and then waited for them, there was little doubt that his target had been quite intentional and specific. But why?
“If the man was not Moroccan, then what was he? French? German?” she asked.
Alessandro rubbed his chin, contemplating the question. “I do not know. There is no doubt that I have made enemies over the years. One does not succeed in business without ruffling some feathers. However, it seems unlikely that a business rival would bother to try to kill me in Morocco when Venice or London would be so much less trouble. Given this, I must assume the attempted attack was related to my more covert activities. The European community in Morocco, let alone Casablanca, is not a large one. Certainly, word gets around about new arrivals.”
Melody considered the earlier conversation. “Omar mentioned a missing friend. Would I be correct in assuming that this man is a fellow operative?” She asked this in a low voice, still far from comfortable that Fatima’s house was safe.
Alessandro didn’t look happy to be having this conversation but nodded his head. “As you heard, part of the reason that Matthew and I were sent here was that he is missing. He had been living in Fes as an antiquities scholar but closely monitoring the situation with the French, particularly since April. Whitehall fears the worst.”
Melody had so many questions that she wanted to ask. If she could, she would prefer to have that conversation somewhere more private than Fatima’s salon.
“Do you think we will learn anything at the party tonight?” Rat asked.
Party? What party? Melody thought. How had she missed this?
Rat must have noticed her confused look and said, “Weren’t you listening last night when Fatima told us about it?”
In truth, Melody had been exhausted at dinner and had tuned out most of Fatima’s overly flirtatious conversation with both Alessandro and Rat.
Her brother continued with a sigh, “The British Envoy to Morocco, Sir Reginal Lister, is visiting Casablanca from Tangier. In his honour, the Vice-Consul, Archibald Madden and his wife are throwing a soirée.”
“And we are invited?”
Alessandro explained, “The European community in Casablanca is not large and is quite tight-knit, even amongst people who might be at odds under normal circumstances. Given this, the French, German, and Spanish diplomats in Casablanca will likely be in attendance. It will be an excellent opportunity to gather some intelligence. It is even possible that my supposed attacker from earlier might be in attendance, if such a person exists.”
“Then we should bring Mustafa with us,” Melody pointed out. “He saw the man and could identify him.”
Shaking his head at the absurdity of her statement, Alessandro asked, “How do you suggest we explain that we have a Moroccan street urchin with us?”
Melody was saved from having to formulate a response by Rat. “I assume that if we bring him along with us and explain the circumstances, or at least some of them, to Vice-Consul Madden, he could be persuaded to let Mustafa mingle with his servants as they serve food and drinks. That way, he can circulate through the room and see if he recognises anyone.”
“Well, we’re going to need to give him more than a bath if this idea is to work,” Alessandro said, clearly giving the plan far more credence coming from Rat than he did when Melody first suggested it. She tried not to show her irritation. Alessandro stood and left the room, saying nothing. When he returned a few minutes later, he explained, “Ahmed will ensure that Mustafa has appropriate attire. He will also send the boy to us now so we can explain what we need from him.”
Now that issue was dealt with, Melody considered the evening ahead. She assumed that Fatima would be accompanying them. So far that day, their hostess hadn’t presented herself. Melody did not look forward to the idea of watching the woman preen her feathers in public.
No sooner had Melody had this thought than the woman herself appeared, looking as beautiful and sophisticated as ever.
“Ah, you are all back,” Fatima said, sweeping into the room. “And how is dear Omar?”
Given that Omar clearly acted as far more than a translator, Melody wondered again just where Fatima’s allegiances lay. After all, the conclusion of the murder investigations in Venice had revealed just how complicated but intensely felt patriotism could be. Who could have guessed that the seemingly quintessentially British Xander Ashby would have more loyalty towards his mother’s homeland of Austria?
At least from what she knew so far about Fatima, it was hard to imagine why she would be willing to help Britain beyond the possibility that she felt it was somehow in either Morocco's or France’s interests. Was there something more that Melody was missing?