Free The Torch of Tangier by Aileen G. Baron Page A

Franz Boas, who had founded the department of anthropology at Columbia.
    Some of this made sense to Lily now. “You and Drury were Boas’ students at Columbia, weren’t you?” She paused and thought some more. “You’re talking about the National Character Studies, Culture at a Distance projects? The kind of thing we’re working on at the Legation?”
    “That’s for the Office of War Information, OWI. I’m talking about the OSS.”
    “It’s all alphabet soup to me.”
    “Archaeologists like Nelson Glueck work for the OSS.”
    Lily knew that Nelson Glueck, director of the American School of Archaeological Research in Jerusalem, was conducting an archaeological survey of Transjordan. “So Glueck’s not just doing a survey?” Lily asked. “He’s mapping out terrain and military installations?”
    Pardo nodded. “Right. The job of the OSS is to get ahead of the Army and Navy, lay the groundwork for them. Find out things. Make contacts they can’t.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he expected her to take notes. “The thing is, anthropologists, archaeologists can go anywhere. It’s the nature of their work. Before you came, Drury checked you out. And we’ve done some background work on you. For security clearance.”
    “You want me to do a survey?” she asked.
    “Not exactly. This is more urgent. You’re on the ground here. OSS headquarters for North Africa is here in Tangier.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” MacAlistair said. “Get on with it.” He leaned forward, his hand on his knee. “This spring and summer, our forces broke the German drive to Egypt. Rommel retreated back into Libya, ending the threat to Suez. Now it’s time to attack Rommel from the west, destroy Axis forces in the Western Desert, push him out of Africa.”
    “We have to get a foothold in North Africa,” Pardo said. “Secure bases for intensified military operations against the Axis in Europe. It takes a lot of personnel. We need help—people like you who know the Middle East-–to prepare a local underground for backup.”
    MacAlistair stood up. “Drury has been working with the Riffians. They’re ready to step in, if needed.”
    “We work through the Moroccan Nationalist Party,” Drury had told her. “They despise the French.”
    “If Drury signals them,” MacAlistair said, “they’ll assemble and seize a few key positions, cut off roads, garrisons, deliver guns. The Americans will handle Morocco and Oran, land troops, drop parachutists. We’ll be further east.” He coughed gently and placed his hands on the small of his back, stretched, and coughed again and waited for the paroxysm to finish. “Our convoy’s already left Glasgow and Liverpool. In a few days it will be poised off the coast of North Africa.”
    Lily wondered what her place in this was. “Well then, why—?”
    “Here’s the point.” MacAlistair moved an armchair closer to the divan and sat down. “Tangier is going to be communications HQ here in North Africa for Operation Torch, relaying messages between Casablanca and Gibraltar.”
    Lily stared at the tea glass and curled her fingers around it. “Operation Torch?”
    “That’s the code name for the landings in North Africa,” Pardo said. “I’ll be in Casablanca. You’ll assist Drury in Tangier. Think you can handle it?” He paused. “Think about it. If you agree, there’s no turning back.”

Chapter Twelve
    Lily started back to the Legation. Bits of paper, scuffed shoes and slippers, scraped along the street in her peripheral vision. She needed to think, to ponder what she had just heard, to be by herself before she went up to The Mountain.
    Her sandals flapped against the crooked sidewalk.
    Assist Drury.
    What would she have to do? How would she do it? What would her duties be?
    She gave a perfunctory nod to the marine on duty, entered the Legation and started down the hall to her office. The building had the feel of afternoon drawing to an end: doors clicking shut,